


Birds of a Feather

by Miss_Vile



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Regency, Canon-Typical Violence, Ed is lowkey horny on main, F/M, Gay coded phrases, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Murder Mystery, Murder Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Vile/pseuds/Miss_Vile
Summary: Mr. Edward Nashton had little interest in courting the dull, witless women of Gotham's high society. They often found the bite of his own wit to be too harsh or too odd for their liking. Struck dumb by his more eccentric habits of speech and sensibility, they would reject his offers and he would return home to Sir Thomas Nashton's disappointment.
Relationships: Isabella & Edward Nygma, Isabella/Edward Nygma, Kristen Kringle & Edward Nygma, Lucius Fox & Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 68
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There was a request for a Regency AU in the Discord so I thought I would try my hand at it. It's been a _long_ time since I've written in this style, so it took me a minute to get into the swing on things. Hope you enjoy!

Mr. Edward Nashton had little interest in courting the dull, witless women of Gotham's high society. They often found the bite of his own wit to be too harsh or too odd for their liking. Struck dumb by his more eccentric habits of speech and sensibility, they would reject his offers and he would return home to Sir Thomas Nashton's disappointment.

“You're back so early,” his mother said, “I take it Mr. Elliot's daughters were not to your standards?”

“I could not stay a moment longer and listen to their mindless _prittle prattle,”_ he confessed.

Edward's father had insisted he pursue a wife. He would often be dragged from his bed, hoisted into a carriage, and sent off to some dreary corner of Gotham. But no one held his attention. So he would return to his father's homestead empty-handed and in need of a good book.

“Well, you should get used to it. You will hear more of it once you marry.”

“Not if I find the right one, I won't,” he pouted, letting her hook her arm around the crook of his elbow.

“Marriage is a business, Edward,” she told him, “Don't complicate things for yourself. It will only lead to heartbreak.”

“Didn't _you_ marry for love, mother?” Edward's tone was blunt as ever, “Though, truthfully, can you really call it love? Is that what you tell yourself when he chooses a bottle over you?”

“Mind your tongue,” she scolded, blithely slapping his arm, though her son wasn't exactly meaning for his words to read as playful, “Your father is home.”

Edward scowled. He didn't want to have to face him so soon after his recent failure. He much preferred his head remain upon his shoulders, “I know I've only just returned home, but I think I should pay the Kringle's a visit this afternoon.”

“Speaking of which, we have been invited to a ball in Ms. Kristen and Ms. Isabella's honour,” she smirked, “They will be coming out into society.”

“Then I am all the happier for them.”

“And, perhaps, during the ball you could choose the one that you fancy most?”

“We grew up together,” he made a face, “I cannot think of them as anything more than my closest friends.”

It was partially a lie. Edward _had_ fancied Ms. Kristen in his youth. The carrot-haired woman was fierce and possessed a sharp tongue which Edward was pleased to be in the company of. She loathed societal standards of aristocracy and raged against them often. Being an educated woman, she valued the written word and would fabricate her own stories in hopes that she would see them produced on a stage.

Ms. Isabella was the quieter of the two. Demure and prettily poised, but a viper with just as sharp a mind as her twin. She favored books and plays of tragedy and had an ear for Edward's enigmatical charades.

Edward was in luck that his father had been in his altitudes when he arrived. The man was slouched over in his study with a bottle of brandy in his hand. He could deal with his father's wrath after he had allowed himself some well-earned relaxation.

Quiet as a mouse, he crept into Sir Nashton's study and procured the dram of laudanum from his desk. That and the company of his dearest friends would be more than enough to lift his spirits and get him through his day.

He bumped into the kitchen maid when he started to run down the corridor.

“Oh! Mr. Edvard! Back so soon,” the kindly woman spoke in a thick Hungarian accent.

“That I am, Gertrud,” he smiled back at her, “It is good to see you.”

Gertrud Kapelput immigrated to Gotham from Hungary. Which, of course, meant she was easy to exploit. However, she never complained about her sub-optimal rations or lack of fire in her room and she always seemed to have stars in her eyes. She was also an excellent cook and would bake jam tartlets and a type of poppy seed pastry from her own childhood as a special treat for Mr. Edward and his friends.

“Such a kind boy. Why is it that no woman wants your company?” She pursed her lips.

“My first, by right of bachelorhood, Doth fair my countenance be considered good? My Second, in seasons fair, have given thus unto the air. My Third you think drawn in haste, But I, like Apollo, crave a different taste.”

“Mr. Edvard, you know I am no good with these things,” she rolled her eyes at him, though in a loving manner.

“Love,” he told her, however that was not the _full_ answer to his riddle but she needn't know that, “It is not that they do not want the pleasure of my company- though I have no doubts that I am not always to their partiality- but I desire _love_. And to be loved. To know it and to cherish it fondly.”

“Just like my Osvald,” she smiled, “Well, I tell you same thing I told him: Life only gives you one true love. When you find it, run to it.”

“That is good advice, Gertrud. I shall keep it abreast.”

With that and the promise of desserts brought to his room after lunch, he retreated to the safety of his room.

It was a haven unto itself. Filled with books, ink, and furniture in his favorite shade of pomona green. He downed a shot of opium and opened his copy of _Traité des poisons_ by Mathieu Orfila. Edward fancied himself a chemist or, if he was being self-indulgent, an _alchemist_ with aspirations of venturing into the realm of toxicology. The act of peeling apart another person's organs in order to determine if there was poison in the blood peaked his interests considerably.

His devilish and accurst fascination with blood and viscera was kept to himself. For all his eccentricities, that was one he remained tight-lipped about. Even to Ms. Kristen and Ms. Isabella.

_"All things are poisonous and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not poisonous."_ he quoted whilst taking another shot of laudanum to clear his senses.

In one euphoric rush, he could taste flowers and walk on the air. Which, of course meant that _now_ was as good a time as any to saddle his horse and ride to the Kringle Homestead. He packed away the calligraphy set he'd purchased in the city and stumbled through the corridors leading through the servant's hall in order to avoid the head of the household.

It was there that he ran into Oswald...

The man was of short stature with raven hair, a hooked nose, and ivory complexion. His blue-green eyes caught the light in such a way that they seemed to change colour- like the plumage of an English starling. Edward would have considered him attractive were he not a simple, caw-pawed individual. He was a man of all work, currying favour and approval from the Housekeeper and other servants.

Sir Nashton often compared the young scullion to a penguin. Admittedly, the resemblance was not far off. He'd injured his leg not long ago. So now he walked with a limp. Waddled, rather. Hunched in upon himself like he was shielding his form from view. If it weren't for his more beautiful features that Edward couldn't help but find fetching, he would liken him to Igor from _The Modern Prometheus._

“Mr. Nashton!” he exclaimed, “I-I did not see you there. My... um... apologies.”

“It is quite alright, Oswald,” Edward smiled and cocked his head to the side, “Is something the matter?”

“No. I was... cleaning. Yes. Just cleaning,” he smiled boyishly and averted his gaze.

Edward's eyes caught the barely open door to the dining room and Oswald's hands that were hidden from view, “Cleaning? This far away from the scullery?”

Oswald looked up at him and, for a moment, there was a sharpness to the edges of his eyes that Edward felt captivated by. But, in a blink, it was gone.

“I was on my way there,” Oswald told him.

Edward peered over his shoulder, trying to see what the smaller man was hiding behind his back, “From the dining hall?”

“Mr. Edward,” that sharpness returned, “Are you in need of something? More laudanum, perhaps?”

Edward grinned ear to ear, eager to drink in more of this Hellhoundish disposition he'd just uncovered, “Why, Oswald, is that a hang gallows look I see?” he could drown in the stormy sea of the man's eyes and, with his current high, he might do just that, “You've changed since last we spoke.”

It was true. In all the years Oswald had served the Nashton's, he had never been an affront to the other servants and certainly not his employers. He had been accepted into the bosom of the Nashton's because of their affections towards his mother, Gertrud. But he always wore a put upon smile that reeked of deceit. Edward could never quite worm out his true intentions.

The darkness enveloping the penguin's features did little to dissuade Edward's intuition.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Edward. I should return to my work,” his smile didn't reach his eyes.

“Very well,” Edward returned the curtness with a slight bow of his head before continuing on his path toward the stables.

But, right at the last minute, he spun on his heels and ventured down a different corridor. His curiosity had won over his conscience. He rounded the corner towards the drawing room where he could hear someone rummaging. He lurked around the entryway and, to his delight, he could see that Oswald was up to no good.

He was pocketing all sorts of treasures into a hidden satchel behind his apron. Candlesticks, bits of silver, and gilded ceramic. There was a bowl placed on a table containing some apples that had been set aside for Mrs. Nashton. Oswald smirked impishly, licked his lips, and placed one of the stone fruits into the pocket of his apron.

The distinct echo of footsteps could be heard down the hall.

“Oswald, _what_ are you doing here?” The haggish old Housekeeper scowled.

Edward watched on in amazement as the meek and boyish demeanor of the Oswald he once knew appeared right before his eyes.

“I was tending to the other work around the estate. I thought that perhaps I could help with the laundry today now that Mr. Edward has returned home.”

“With your filthy hands?” she snarled, “You are a scullion. You belong in the scullery.”

“Yes. Of course. How foolish of me,” he chuckled. Edward loathed the sound.

“Well, back to it then. You are stinking up the rest of the house.”

With a huff, she left. Once Oswald knew she was out of earshot, he groaned and mumbled vulgarities under his breath. The facade melted away in an instant and Edward was entranced.

He announced his presence with an agonizingly slow applause. The scullion's eyes widened and he shifted on the balls of his feet.

“I recognized that look in your eye. Should have known you couldn't be trusted,” Edward pointed to the bump of leather that he knew was filled with his family's things.

“I-I don't know what you mean. I was only dusting them,” he stammered.

“You take me for a fool? _That_ is more an insult to me than your thievery,” he clicked his tongue.

Oswald's nostrils flared, “I suppose you will be turning me in?”

“Why would I do that?” Edward slowly approached. The smaller man did not budge. He merely tilted his chin higher and kept his jaw tight. Edward took three of the apples in hand and juggled them into the air, “I've finally solved the puzzle.”

“Puzzle?”

“Of you,” Edward caught the fruit in one graceful motion and placed them into Oswald's sack of loot-An acknowledgment that he intended to let him run off with them.

Oswald chuckled, “Don't assume you know me, Mr. Edward. You are still missing some pieces.”

“Am I?” Edward's smile widened. The thrill of this particular game caused the blood to rush in his ears.

“You are,” he shot him a mocking look, “Am I free to go?”

The man's fingers twitched and it was only then that Edward saw the blade tucked beneath his sleeve. He was certain that in one simple movement, the penguin would spill his innards all over the floor. He felt his heart thrum at the very idea... though not in the way he probably should have.

“How long have you been stealing from us?” Edward couldn't help but ask.

“For far longer than you would think. Now, am I free to go or not?”

“Right from under our noses?” Edward continued.

“Sir Nashton is a drunken castaway, so it is easy to maneuver around him. My mask of simplicity works like a charm on the Mrs. Nashton. She's never suspected a thing. Much the same with the jingle-brained servants I am forced to endure daily,” he scoffed.

“It seems we have underestimated you.” _And I am a fool for not discovering this pearl sooner,_ he thought.

“Which is often the case when the most intelligent of the lot is always half-sprung on opium or yowling away under the weight of his self-imposed celibacy,” he looked Edward up and down and ran his tongue across sharpened teeth, “You have not answered my question, Mr. Edward. Am I free to go or must you continue to burden me with your presence?”

Edward contemplated the appropriate response before settling on the obvious, “Enjoy the apples.”

Oswald gave him another fake smile before turning and leaving towards the scullery. Edward hadn't known that he had been holding his breath. In fear or infatuation, he couldn't say. He filled his lungs before walking in the opposite direction towards his original goal.

* * *

Courting Edward was a hollow endevour. He had lost count of the women and men who had visited the estate in the hopes of charming him. Many of whom were loose screws or individuals seeking to climb the social ladder by way of marriage. The very idea of being married to one of them made his stomach churn.

He much preferred the life he had now. Free of those obligations and two of the brightest stars in Gotham at his side to shower him with compliments and decent conversation about literature.

“Tell us all about your adventures in the city,” Ms. Kristen twirled about in the late afternoon sun. The garden at the Kringle Country House was a humble one, but secluded and not lacking in charm, “What was your impression of Mr. Elliot's daughter?”

“Of wit, unlike my razor tongue, Though not a swan, this waterfowl, Rarely such a verse is sung. Courtesy bound to observe, Obtuse. Children name me not duck, but... ”

“Goose!” Ms. Isabella exclaimed.

“Correct!” Edward applauded, “She was a goose, the poor scatter-witted thing. She was not one for conversation or even mild-mannered banter.”

“Yes, but what you call _mind-mannered_ others would call c _allous,”_ Kristen teased. She knew him well.

“I merely speak the truth! It would be rude of me to pretend that I didn't find their lack of intellect unattractive,” he crinkled his nose.

“I think you should cut your losses,” Ms. Kristen told him. The slight tilt of her green and primrose coloured hat gave her an air of rebelliousness that Edward always valued. She spoke her mind often and she was all the better for it.

“You would curse me to be a tenant for life?” Edward gasped and placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“Give us none of your jaw,” Kristen chided playfully, “A curse. Ha!”

“I shudder at the thought,” he grimaced, “To be leg-shackled to a pretty face with no brain.”

“He seeks true love. I think there is virtue in that,” Isabella piped in. She wore a hat similar to her sister's, though she favoured a green trim to match Edward's own attire.

“True love only exists in storybooks and I will not be proven otherwise until I experience it for myself,” Kristen stamped her foot.

“I pray that you do,” Edward smiled, “And when you find it and finally hold it in your hands, it will take your breath away.”

“You speak as if you already know,” she raised an eyebrow

“I might,” he blushed, ruffling his hair.

“Has someone finally wormed their way into that cold logician's heart of yours?” Kristen poked at his chest.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, “They have been near me all my life, and I have only just discovered that I do not truly know them.”

Isabella fluttered her lashes and exchanged a look with her sister. The two of them chuckled as they continued walking along the garden path with their childhood friend.

“Thank you once again for the writing set,” Kristen nudged at his arm, “It was very thoughtful. I look forward to using it.”

“I thought you were in need of a new one,” he nudged back, “I hope you will continue writing your stories with it.”

“They're never any good,” she scrunched her nose.

“Nonsense! I expect great things out of you Ms. Kristen. If I do not get to see one of your plays at the Gotham Theatre in my lifetime, I will be sorely disappointed.”

“And what makes you think that you would not be _on_ that stage?” she teased, “You and my sister are gifted actors.”

“You think so?”

“I _know_ so,” Kristen linked her arms around Edward and Isabella, “You two would make quite the beautiful pair on any stage.”

Isabella cleared her throat.

“Oh, Edward, you mustn't stay much longer. Surely you were not gone long enough to have forgotten that the roads of Gotham are not safe at night,” Kristen exclaimed, noting the shifting light. Night always descended upon Gotham early.

Isabella handed him the reigns of his horse, “There are ruffians out there who would mean you harm.”

“How do you know _I_ am not one of those ruffians?” he smiled widely at that.

“Then I would be offended that you never took me with you on your wild adventures,” Isabella smirked.

“Then I shall whisk you away so that we may cause mischief in the streets of Gotham! You the romantic Romeo to my Mercutio,” he pulled himself into the stirrups with a hearty chuckle.

Isabella made a face at that. She rather thought _he_ was the Romeo to her _Juliet._ Kristen elbowed her in the side and motioned for her to continue. She would not tolerate her sister's cowardice.

“Edward... about what you spoke of earlier. About the person who seems to have stolen your affections?”

“Yes?”

She blushed, “Will you tell me more about them?”

He could feel the blood rushing in his ears again, “I'm afraid I am still getting to know them.”

“And, when you do, will you tell me then?” she fidgeted with the threads on her sleeve.

“Of course.”

“Will you be attending our ball tomorrow?” Kristen asked, hesitant.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Isabella's smile was full of hope, “Off with you then. Travel safe.”

* * *

It was unfortunate that the quickest path back to the Nashton estate was through the woods.

Edward had not meant to stay for as long as he did but the pleasure of their company paired with his fear of returning home to his father kept him from adhering to common sense.

The sun was nearly set and the path was growing too dark to see in the areas where the moonlight did not shine through the trees. He hurried his pace but stopped suddenly when he heard the distinctive howl of barking irons.

He'd heard the stories of the highwaymen who stalked through the night and kept a pistol holstered to his side for that very reason. However, in the fog of his high, he hadn't thought to grab it. Now he was traveling in the dark with nothing to protect himself. Edward didn't often admit his foolishness often, but this was certainly one of those times.

He did not make it much further down the muddy path before he heard a scream.

“Whoa there, Echo.” he stroked the horse's mane and then searched for the source of the sound.

The clouds parted and, in the soft blue of the moonlight, he could just barely make out the shape of a man limping through the trees. He was wearing a tricorn had and a long, dark coat.

“Hello?” Edward called out.

The man collapsed into a heap. Overwhelmed with concern for the other man, Edward leaped from his horse and hurried over to the man. He was bedecked in an assortment of knives and had a pistol at his side. His face was covered in a black cloth.

He moaned.

“Are you alright?” Edward tried to lift the man to his feet but that only caused him to call out in pain. Edward looked down at his hands and saw that they were covered in blood.

“Oh dear,” Edward exclaimed.

“M-Mr. Edward?” the man groaned

“Oswald?” Edward's eyes widened. He removed the cloth from the man's face and gasped.

The color was drained from his face and his eyes were sunken in. Blood soaked into the wool of his coat, ruining it. He breathed heavily and held onto Edward's arms with a vice-like grip. He opened his mouth to speak but instead turned slack-jawed and crumpled under his own weight.

Without a second through, Edward scooped the smaller man into his arms and hoisted him onto his horse.

It wasn't that much further to the estate and it was late enough into the evening that his parents and the servants were already asleep. They rarely waited up for him. Which came as a relief as he attempted to carry the injured highwayman up the stairs to his room.

He set him on the chaise lounge and quickly made a fire. It wouldn't do either of them any good to be cold after the energy they'd exerted. Lighting one became a bit of an artform for him and, so it only took a few moments before the warmth filled the room.

“Let's have a look at you, shall we?” Edward said as he pulled the blood-soaked linen from the man's shoulder.

The gash near his clavicle looked to have been made with a crude knife. Edward suspected it was the result of a lost bet or a deal gone wrong. There was no honour among thieves and scoundrels, so it could have been anything. He had to bite back the flood of questions that threatened to spill from his mouth. There would be time for that later.

Edward was no physician but he had read plenty on the subject of medicine and anatomy that he was confident he could treat the penguin's wounds. Once he had stopped the bleeding, he carefully cleaned the skin around it with water and fetched a needle and thread.

“Here. Take this,” Edward handed him a small cordial glass partially filled with the opiate.

“No,” the raven-haired man swiped at his hand.

“It will ease the pain,” Edward explained, “I cannot stitch your wounds if you are screaming. Unless, of course, you would rather get caught?”

Oswald rolled his eyes and then took the laudanum without any more fuss.

Edward tied off the thread and covered the stitching with a bit of linen gauze he had stashed away.

“There. Good as new. You should be able to go back to work in the morning and not raise suspicions.”

“Why did you help me?” Oswald asked, “You could have left me there.”

“And what sort of friend would I be if I did that?”

“I am not your friend,” Oswald spat.

“Yet,” Edward smirked, “Come now. Up you go. I will hide the evidence while you make your way down to the servant's quarters. Your mother will be worried if you don't return.”

Oswald lifted himself to his feet and blinked through the opium fog. Edward had been right that it would dull his senses, but it also made him exceedingly tired.

Edward saw how the smaller man struggled to walk. He lifted Oswald's arm over his shoulder and placed his other hand on his waist.

“I don't need your help,” he fussed.

“Would you rather I let you break your neck falling down the stairs?”

Oswald clenched his teeth and allowed Mr. Edward to partially carry him down to the small room he shared with his mother.

“Why are you gone so late?” Gertrud flung open the door. Her eyes were red and swollen, “Why you do this to your mother?”

“It was my fault, Gertrud,” Edward provided an excuse before Oswald could even open his mouth.

“You boys are up to no good?” she asked and then wagged her finger in her son's direction, “What did I tell you about keeping away from those trollops at the alehouse?”

“There were _no trollops,_ mother!” Oswald cried and threw his hands over his eyes.

“I assure you, Gertrud. It was just some innocent fun. Though, your son is a _bit_ clumsy.”

“Oh!” Gertrud exclaimed, seeing the wound on her son's shoulder, “What happened to you?”

“I... uh...” Oswald stammered, his vision still swimming from the medicine, “Mr. Edward and I were drinking and I tripped over my own feet. Silly me.”

“I took care of him. He should be much better in the morning,” Edward reinforced the lie.

“Thank you, Mr. Edward,” she cried and peppered her son's face with kisses, “I hope he was no trouble.”

“None at all,” he smiled and watched as Oswald fell asleep.

“You are too kind to us.”

“I feel I am not kind enough,” he said, noting the lack of a fire and the chill in the air, “Make sure he rests. I'll send for him in the morning.”

“Oh? Is something the matter?”

“No. I simply have an offer for him that he cannot refuse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ
> 
> Also, Edward's love riddle specifically references him being Bisexual. Because we stan the Disaster Bi Ed Nygma in this house.


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald roused from slumber- staggering upright and wincing at the unforgiving, morning sun that mocked him from its lofty position on high. Normally, he would have pulled himself from bed long before dawn to attend to his duties in the scullery. The first blush of light spilled in through the small window and the wounded bird scarcely contained his groan.

“Oh! You are awake!” his mother cooed and ran her hand through his messy dark locks.

“Why didn't you wake me- _Ow!”_ he sat up much too quickly and gasped at the pain in his shoulder. It bloomed across his chest and made his extremities tingle.

“Let me have a look at you,” she held him in place and frowned at the bloodstain on his linen shirt. It would stain and they didn't have many options for replacements.

She poured water into the ceramic basin and slowly began wiping away at the dried blood around his wound. He flinched at the feeling of cold water on the tender stitching. To his surprise, Mr. Edward had taken great care with his wounded wing. The threads almost looked... _artful._ A carefully woven pattern sewn into his flesh. He almost wished he could keep them.

The events of the night prior crept back into his mind with each slow blink. Fish had sent him on a relatively easy mission but they had underestimated their rivals. Oswald and his men were outnumbered and the treasure they were promised turned out to be nothing more than dead cargo.

He hissed when his mother replaced the soiled gauze with some strips of clean linen.

“My boy so clumsy,” she shook her head.

“I should have noticed the knife sooner,” Oswald scowled.

Gertrud's hands hovered in mid-air over his wound. She blinked, “Knife? Mr. Edvard said you were drinking and had fallen. What is this about a _knife?”_

“Mother, it's nothing-”

“-My Osvald, you are not doing anything you should not?” she forcefully grabbed him by the jaw and held his gaze. She had an intensity about her that she didn't use against him often. But, when she did, it made his blood run cold.

“Of course not,” he smiled through the lie. It came naturally to him after so many years of having done so.

She made a dismissive noise and stood to carry the blood-filled basin back to the table, “You will pay the Devil for your trouble if you are lying to me. I am no country bumpkin with hay in my brains.”

“I know you're not,” he lowered his gaze to the dirty floor, saddened.

He'd barely gotten dressed before a harsh knock came at the door.

“Come,” the old Housekeeper made a face that communicated her displeasure at seeing him.

“I am _terribly_ sorry that I slept through the morning,” he followed as quickly as he could with his queer-pinned legs, “I will work well into the night if I must to make it up to... you.”

He stopped the moment he realized they were in the drawing room. Mr. Edward- bedizened in his signature green- closed his book with a Devilish grin. Oswald turned back towards the Housekeeper but she was already making her way down the hall away from them.

He inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising upwards towards his ears. He staved off a scream and turned back towards the cock-sure man in lace and opulent trimmings in front of him.

“As of this moment, you will be my valet,” Mr. Edward announced, his lips coiled at the corners and his eyes dipped down his nose at the smaller, feistier man.

“And if I don't accept?”

“It's really quite simple: You will hang for your nefarious activities or you will attend me. And, though I would delight in seeing a rope pulled taught around that beautiful neck of yours, I feel it is in your best interest to choose the latter.”

After a moment's contemplation, he answered, nostrils flared, “It is. But, know this, Mr. Nashton...” he stalked forward, predatory and bold, his beak-like nose high in the air, “…you hold no power over me.”

“You are a servant,” Edward grinned, already delighting in where this conversation was going.

“I am also a rogue who would sooner slit your throat and let you bleed than allow myself to be under your thumb.”

“Then what's stopping you?” Edward didn't mean for his words to come out as breathless as they had, but here he was.

Oswald narrowed his gaze and then looked him up and down. Then he laughed, “Forgive my assumption to your character. Your family is a dreary lot. I thought you much the same.”

“I am nothing like them. Least of all, my father,” Edward's tone came out harsher than Oswald had expected.

“I see that now,” he grinned, “What would you have me do then? I've only ever worked in the scullery.”

“First...” Edward stalked forward and gently tugged at the man's collar, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes. But I am not dead,” he rolled his eyes, “Small mercies.”

“Are you going to thank me?” Edward raised an eyebrow.

“I have not yet decided whether or not being forced to stay alive and endure _your_ company is worthy of my thanks.”

“Fair,” Edward chuckled, “You are lucky the scoundrel did not puncture your lung.”

“Well... _he_ wasn't as lucky,” Oswald's face split into a grin. All teeth and unhallowed feralness. It made Edward shiver.

In the afternoon, Mr. Edward presented him with a new set of attire befitting his new role at the estate. It was modest but still far more fashionable than the rags and hand-me-downs he received as a scullion. The linen shirt had a high collar and the darkened grey waistcoat was pin-striped in a muted puce. Edward had also gifted him a simple silk cravat with the barest kiss of color that reminded him of shrub roses.

“We will make a coxcomb out of you yet,” Edward smiled, holding out his arm, “Come. Walk with me to the garden.”

Oswald stared at the man and took a moment to bask in his peculiarities. The very notion of someone like Mr. Edward talking any sort of interest in him was laughable. He'd known the man almost his whole life and was astutely aware of his manic tendencies. He would boast around the estate and tire himself with books, charades, and trivial musings. Befriending a highwayman and forcing him into his employ was likely just another game for him. But, Oswald would attend him all the same. If only for his mother's sake.

The longer Oswald listened to the chatterbox that was Mr. Edward Nashton to more his singleness required further explanation. He was handsome- very much unlike himself- and possessed a tongue sharper than any sword he'd ever had the displeasure or _pleasure_ of having pressed against his throat.

He had the gift of the gab. Poetry spilled from his mouth in a decadent waterfall of candied honey. It was only after the third riddle he'd successfully solved that Oswald realized how warm his face had become.

“I enjoy your company, Oswald.” Edward admired his new friend as they walked about in the garden. He didn't even mind that he had to lean so heavily on him. Especially since that meant he could examine his face more closely and watch the clockwork spin in his mind as he indulged Edward in his charades.

“Yes, you enjoy the thrill of having a criminal for a companion,” he scoffed, “Once the novelty wears off, you will tire of me.”

“I care more for your wit. I doubt I will tire of it,” he smiled, looking down at his new friend, “You also give yourself too little credit. You are quite charming when you allow yourself to be.”

“No need to flatter me,” his valet replied coldly.

“I know there is no need. However, _is_ the flattery working?” Edward cast him a sly, flirtatious grin.

“I suppose,” Oswald tongued the inside of his cheek, “Am I to help you prepare for the ball tonight?”

“I hoped you would attend me there.”

“...But why?” Oswald contorted his face, “Do not my duties as your valet require me to stay here?”

“I have been known to need a sitter at parties,” Edward shrugged.

Oswald snorted, “Be that as it may... I possess no titles. No status.”

“Status and titles are just another form of slavery,” he frowned.

“ _Poverty_ is slavery,” Oswald scoffed, “That is the thing with you nobles- you have so much wealth that you hardly notice when it dribbles through your gilded fingers. Meanwhile, my mother and I must thrive off of your table scraps.”

“Then perhaps we should switch professions,” Edward mused, “I think I would quite like the freedom that came from no longer having to maintain poise and respectability.”

“Why not have both?”

“Both?” Edward's eyes widened. He had not calculated such an idea before.

“I wager you would be quite good at it given your level of intellect,” Oswald thought about it for a moment before continuing, “I have operated in plain sight for many years. I could teach you to do much the same.”

Edward's toffee-coloured eyes sparkled, “I would like that.”

“Consider it payment for saving me,” he said, painfully aware of the blush creeping up his arms.

“An agreeable exchange!” Edward shook his friend's hand, “I should call for the tailor. I have a coat I believe might fit you, but I would like to be sure. We cannot have you looking like some bosky ivory tuner at the ball tonight.”

“I never said I would attend.”

“...If you attend me at the ball, I will turn a blind eye if you steal from them.”

Oswald vibrated with laughter and it made Edward's face warm.

* * *

Mr. Cecil Kringle was an old acquaintance of Sir Thomas Nashton. In their youth, they were more often than not found stumbling out of alehouses and brothels during Nashton's time in the military. Years later, Mr. Kringle had been blessed with two daughters- Kristen and Isabella.

_Kringle_ was not a name of great value, but their connections with Sir Thomas Nashton provided them the necessary boost of fortune the two young bluestockings would need in order to comfortably marry and be well-provided for. Had the Kringle daughters been interested in such affairs, this would have been a boon. Instead, they were fated to be paraded through the ball like cattle.

They forced politeness as they spoke with the families in attendance. The Dumas slithered their way through the crowds, peddling their zealous ideologies. The Elliots, fleshly scorned from their recent visit from Mr. Edward Nashton, kept to themselves. The Kanes and the Crownes did much the same after having realized the level of disinterest Ms. Kristen and Ms. Isabella had in their presence. The only member of high society that seemed to be enjoying himself was the young Mr. Bruce Wayne. He was far too young to be considering such desires, but he was bright-eyed and pocketing chocolates in the corner with a young servant named Selina.

One name that they did not expect to see was _Van Dahl._

They were an old family not unlike the Waynes. Lord Elijah Van Dahl hailed from the Netherlands and did not make public appearances often, so his arrival came as a surprise to everyone. He was accompanied by his wife, Lady Grace, and his two children.

“This is my son, Charles Van Dahl,” Elijah spoke with fondness. There was an eerie and calm quality to his voice that was as off-putting as it was comforting.

“Pleasure,” Mr. Charles bowed his head, his pretentiousness thinly veiled.

“Charmed,” Isabella fluttered her lashes in feigned partiality. The young Van Dahl could not hope to hold her attention however as her gaze slowly drifted towards Mr. Edward. His fingers were elegantly wrapped around a glass of Arrack punch. To her dismay, his eyes were similarly wrapped 'round his newest companion.

“And what of that one?” Edward asked, pointing towards the eldest Elliot son.

“As cowardly as they come,” Oswald chuckled, “He screamed for his mother when I pointed my gun at him.”

Edward nearly choked on his drink, “Is there _anyone_ here who is not a sorry pigeon-livered fellow?”

Oswald's eyes scanned the room. Most of them he'd robbed on more than one occasion while they rode through the Gotham Woods in their carriages blissfully unaware of the dogs and Devils that prowled through the muck. His keen eye caught the silhouette of a man he'd been avoiding that evening.

“There,” he gestured with a subtle tilt of his head, “Detective Bullock is a drunken sowse crown. His _partner_ , on the other hand...”

Edward glanced over to the other side of the room. Next to the older detective was a well-built, rugged blonde. _Detective James Gordon_ , if memory served correctly.

“And what makes him such a gentry-cove?” Edward could not help but turn up his nose. Something about his perfectly chiseled jaw and the way his valet's gaze lingered on the man made his teeth grind.

“Detective Gordon has been nipping at my heels for some time.”

“Why not be rid of him?” Edward asked, his voice now a rumbling whisper.

“Where is the fun in that, Mr. Edward?” he smiled, “Besides, the good detective and I have quite the thatch-gallows relationship.”

“Meaning?” he raised an eye-brow, not at all happy with the direction of this conversation.

“Is that jealousy I sense, my eriffed friend?” he teased.

Mr. Edward swallowed. He dared not answer truthfully in mixed company. His hesitancy made Oswald laugh.

“We have been known to exchange favours. If there is a particularly nasty rogue he needs dealt with, he comes to me. In exchange, he turns the other cheek to my petty crimes.”

“He is crooked then?”

“No. He has strict moral obligation, but there is a healthy amount of grey that he indulges in order to achieve his goals. So long as I am not caught straying too far, we allow one another to live another day,” he examined his friend's furrowed expression, “You don't approve?”

“I suppose it is a worth-while manipulation,” he spoke through gritted teeth. The words made the air taste fowl.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the kind voice made the two of them jump.

“Lord Van Dahl,” Edward smiled, bowing his head, “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of introducing myself. I am Mr. Edward Nashton and this is my valet, Oswald.”

“You look... _familiar._ Have we met before, dear boy?” Lord Van Dahl asked, addressing Oswald.

“No doubt I resemble my mother,” he replied, “She was a scullery maid at the Van Dahl estate before I was born. Perhaps you remember her?”

The Lord Van Dahl's eyes widened, “You are Gertrud's son?”

“That I am, my Lord. She spoke very highly of-”

“-How old are you?” he interrupted.

“Thirty-one,” he cocked his head to the side, confused and startled by the Baron's sudden insistence.

“I see,” the older man's eyes watered, “I used to send her letters after my parents sent her away. It broke my heart when she stopped writing. Will you tell her that I met you... and would like to hear from her?”

“Of course,” Oswald smiled, though he was unsure of the situation. He felt like he was missing some key detail and would have to ask his mother about it later. He much preferred being the _keeper_ of secrets.

“What a bizarre man,” Edward watched as the Baron walked away.

“Yes... I know my mother was fond of him, but I know not much more than that.”

“Maybe you're the lost Van Dahl heir,” Edward mused. There were rumors, of course, of a lost heir to the Van Dahl family and fortune long before the man married Lady Grace and adopted her two insufferable children.

“Mind that tongue of yours or I will cut it out,” the Penguin threatened.

“You promise?”

“Van Dahl heir. What a _ridiculous_ notion,” Oswald rolled his eyes as he changed the subject, “I'm a wild beast. I have heard all manner of insult before, my dear Edward, but never have I ever been told that I am the heir to anything other than devilry and depravity. My legacy will be one of blood and iron.”

“You are more worthy of nobility than the fat culls here presently,” he insisted.

Oswald was in possession of a voracious mind and a hunger for power. It was intoxicating. Edward, without thinking, adjusted the man's silk cravat. His nimble fingers delicately brushing against the smooth skin. Oswald hitched his breath.

“You seem feverish,” Edward looked upon his friend with concern, “How is your shoulder?”

“I... I am well,” Oswald shook his head. There was no point in maintaining _those_ thoughts. Edward had likely had too much to drink and was still feasting on the fresh uniqueness that came from having a criminal as a friend.

The musicians began tuning their instruments and many of the attendees reveraunced to their partners before escorting them to the floor.

“Will you dance with me?” Edward bowed and held out his arm.

“Surely you jest?”

“It is a courtly dance. You should fair nicely. Even with a limp.”

“Absolutely not,” he snarled and shook his head. He would not be thrown around some dance floor and gawked at like some wounded show-animal. His heart sank the moment he saw Edward's bottom lip protruding and sighed.

“Very well-”

“Mr. Edward! Dance with me?” Ms. Isabella hooked her arm around the man in green and pulled him away from Oswald and his wounded pride.

He watched as the silhouetted verdigris with chestnut eyes were lost in the crowd. His chest ached at the sudden loss. When had he become so attached? So encumbered and purloined away?

“It seems we are both without a partner,” a young woman with dark hair and eyes snaked her way to his side. He turned to look at her and recognized Ms. Sasha Van Vahl. Her bright, Coquelicot-coloured dress made her look like a venomous thing, “Will you dance with me?”

“Of course,” Oswald bowed his head in politeness and escorted her to the floor as he had seen the others do.

She frowned at his limp and turned her nose up at him, but allowed herself the embarrassment of dancing with him. Oswald noticed how she crinkled her face discourteously and glared at the Lady Van Dahl who was observing them from the window.

“I saw you speaking with my father,” she said, “Did you say something rude to him? He seems distraught.”

Oswald bit down on the inside of his cheek at her insolent remark. He blinked, smiled, and pulled down the timid facade he had worn for years, “I believe I might have startled him with my parentage is all.”

“What?” her voice came out harsh.

“My mother...” he scrutinized her features, “She used to serve at the Van Dahl estate a long time ago.”

“I see,” she scowled and then stared at him awkwardly, “Do you even know this dance?”

“I am afraid one does not have many opportunities to learn dances while working in a scullery.”

The dance required two even lines of dancers. Each moved down their respective lines in a spiraling pattern- allowing each attendee at the ball a brief moment to greet and even _flirt_ with their new partners if they were so bold. However, Ms. Isabella had other plans.

“You do realize that we are supposed to change partners in this dance?” Edward chuckled as he turned over his right shoulder and cast himself down the line.

“Yes, but causing mischief is more fun,” she smiled, maneuvering her way with an extra spin in the wrong direction that firmly positioned her across from Edward with each lilting verse, “And I get to stay with you.”

“This ball is being held in _your_ honour, Ms. Isabella. You are out in society and there are others who wish to dance with you,” Edward spoke to his friend, but his eyes wandered down the line towards the raven-haired man.

“I do not wish to dance with them,” she blushed, “Only you.”

He hummed dismissively. Not that he entirely _meant_ to ignore his childhood friend, but his mind had drifted elsewhere. His gaze lingered on the perfidious sycophant at the other end of the hall. His first steps had been clumsy but he easily fell into the simple pattern of the dance. Eventually, he to looked up at Edward. His eyes contained within them a stormy blue fog that resembled the afternoon sky in the right light. Other times they shined like a milky malachite, a delicious green that Edward wished to capture for his own. To preserve on his shelf of curiosities where he preserved all of his dangerous things.

Edward was already growing weary at the loss of Oswald's closeness. His raspy, lilting voice had him wrapped around a finger and, surprising, Edward didn't even mind. His undomesticated savagery was matched only by his unfettered cunning and it turned Edward's limbs to jelly.

They inched their way closer as they danced- spinning, turning, and stepping in time with the violin strings. They were merely a partner away when they smiled at one another. They awaited the next measure of music and frowned when their anticipation was cut short by the interruption of applause. The musicians bowed and the dancers escorted their partners back to their starting positions around the hall- offering them drinks and continued conversation.

Oswald scowled to his right and Edward realized that the bird's displeasure was aimed towards Isabella. Edward rolled his eyes- both at the woman's stubbornness to dance with anyone else and at his friend's distaste.

“Don't I know you?” a voice said.

Edward turned to his right and found his face distorting into equal displeasure. Beside him, across from Oswald, was Detective Gordon. He was even more handsome up close.

“Do you?” Oswald's lip curled into an amorous feline grin that made Edward seethe.

The rugged blonde stepped forward, breaching that line of polite distance. His eyes narrowed slightly as he examined Oswald's features- paying close attention to his eyes and how they shined like polished pebbles.

His brazen disrespect clearly made his friend uncomfortable and Mr. Edward would not stand for it.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Edward wedged himself between them, “Ms. Isabella and her sister would like to have a walk with us around the garden.”

“Oh? Uh...” Isabella took one look at the Detective and the uneasiness of the smaller man before deciding it was best to play along with the ruse, “Yes! Kristen wants you to read her latest writing.”

“Then we shouldn't keep her any longer. Have a splendid evening, Detective. Thank you for the dance,” Oswald smiled as he looped his arm around Edward's and allowed himself to be escorted away.

Edward could not contain the acidic look in his eye as he glared over his shoulder at the blonde.

“He was growing suspicious,” Oswald whispered.

“Suspicious?”

“Of me. Is that not why you pulled me away so hastily?”

“Wha- Yes... Yes, of course,” he instinctively held Oswald tighter and smiled when that closeness was reciprocated.

* * *

While Ms. Isabella was determined to not allow herself to be showered in the possessive stares of the attendees, Ms. Kristen did much the opposite. Though her motivations were far less innocent. She had intended to curry advantage from the older families in the hopes that one of them would patron her writing. However, she had unintentionally caught the eye of Constable Thomas Dougherty.

Having no status or titles outside of law enforcement, he did not feel particularly inclined to adhere to basic courtesies and societal standards. He was quite the bell swagger at the ball and his rough, confident demeanor was enough to keep Ms. Kristen dangling on his every word.

“I have never felt this way before,” she blushed, “My heart is aflutter. Like birds are flying about my ribs. Do you know what that's like?”

“I do,” Edward blushed and stared down at the grass beneath his boots. He prayed his friend would alter the subject of conversation for he was not yet bold enough nor high enough in his altitudes to elaborate on such a thing in present company.

Ms. Isabella cleared her throat, “Mr. Edward was curious about your newest play.”

“Yes! I would like to read it,” Edward exclaimed.

“I am afraid it is mostly just scribbled musings at this point,” she pulled the crumpled paper from a fold in her sash belt.

Oswald watched on as Mr. Edward playfully snatched the paper from the woman's grasp and then dashed around the poorly lit garden while he attempted to read it. All the while being chased by the feisty woman as her sister pointed and laughed at their charming childishness.

He'd never had the pleasure of having friends before. Fish was more of a motherly figure to his darker, roguish persona. Butch Gilzean _hardly_ counted as a friend. The hulking wall of a man preferred mockery and back-biting to friendship. The closest Oswald had ever come to having a friend was Detective Gordon, but that was so _painfully_ one-sided even he couldn't help but find his predicament rather pathetic.

He would kill to have what Mr. Edward had. Quite literally.

“Ms. Kristen, I do believe this is your finest work,” Edward flashed her a toothy smile with his sincerest compliment.

“I envisioned it being performed by you and my sister,” she shot him a wry grin that made Oswald's feathers bristle. She was up to something and it set his paranoia alight.

“Did you now?” Edward's eyes skimmed the splotted ink and Oswald could see how his eyes brightened at the thought of performing it, “Come!” he hastily grabbed Ms. Isabella by the arm and positioned them both atop a smooth stone that protruded out of the ground- A natural stage that seemed to have been deposited there long ago for the convenience of this precise moment. Edward leaned in close to his friend as they both read over the scene. Ms. Kristen awaited the performance giddily at Oswald's side.

“ _What say you, Lord Tristan?”_ Isabella, now in character set, glided forward. Her hand splayed across Edward's chest in a move far bolder than she would have ever done had she not been wearing an actor's confidence.

“ _You are a vicious one, Lady Iseult,”_ Edward pulled away from her heated touch, _“poisoning me with your love charms and potions”_

“ _I wanted only for you to know of the same love which has blinded me. To know how much my heart yearns for you.”_

“ _So you would possess my mind, hold my will at ransom, and seize my heart with your witchcraft?”_

“ _I would,”_ Isabella's voice became small and, for a moment, Oswald wondered if she was even still acting, _“The love potion will dissolve into the air by sunrise but I wager your truest nature will not. Even without my poison in your blood keeping you abreast to my own bleeding organ, you will soon see and you will soon know what your own soul craves from me.”_

“ _I crave many things from you, Fair Iseult,”_ Edward tilted her chin upwards towards him.

“ _A kiss perhaps?”_ she fluttered her lashes, _“A risk, my dear Tristan. For once you place your lips against mine the spell may not easily be broken.”_

Edward shuddered at that. He knew that this was all in good fun but he could not foolishly deny the thunder in his chest. He quite enjoyed her like this- An edge of quiet mystery, wickedness, and possessiveness. She looked very much unlike her sister. Her emerald eyes glimmered prettily and Edward found that kissing her didn't seem like such a terrible notion. It would be a harmless gesture, after all. He wasn't kissing _Isabella_ necessarily. She was merely the vessel for the fiendish and beautiful Iseult.

Edward leaned forward- his hot breath ghosting against her quivering mouth- but something out of the corner of his eye stopped him.

“Oswald?”

“Hm?” the dark-haired man nervously ran his fingers through his hair, “Apologies. There is just a chill in the air.”

“It is late,” Edward stepped down from the makeshift stage and handed the script back to Ms. Kristen, “If we dally any longer, we might encounter bully ruffians in the woods,” he smiled, “We would not want that.”

Oswald returned his knowing smile, “I will fetch our horses.”

Ms. Kristen looked on as her childhood friend remained entranced by the smaller, angular man. How his line of sight never severed, even after the man turned the corner towards the stables. It was as if Edward could suddenly see through walls. It was unfortunate that it was the same sort of gaze she had seen from Isabella time and time again. Knowingly, she turned towards where he sister stood. Abandoned atop the stage.

Isabella smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and dismissed herself from the garden. Mr. Edward hadn't even noticed she'd fled. Kristen sighed.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” she asked.

“I did,” he smiled, “You seemed to as well. I am happy for you.”

“Constable Dougherty has been invited to lunch tomorrow,” she couldn't help the blush that painted her cheeks, “But, before then, I think I would like to enjoy his company for the remainder of the evening. I should return to the party.”

“I will leave you to it then. Oh, and Ms. Kristen,” Edward kicked at the ground, “How does the play end?”

“I have not yet decided that detail,” she smiled, rather sadly, “Perhaps Lord Tristan will remain tragically shackled to her. Or they might kill each other. Though... part of me wishes that the Lady Iseult will learn to love herself without the approval of a man.”

“Hm,” he furrowed his brow in contemplation, “All are beautifully mournful outcomes. I look forward to hearing more of it. Goodnight, Ms. Kristen.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Edward,” she gave him one last smile before he and Oswald saddled their horses, “Stay out of the affairs of the woodland criminals, won't you?”

“I shall do my best,” he and Oswald shared a laugh before dashing off into the trees.

* * *

They continued their idle conversation on their journey home. Oswald, now more comfortable in his friendship with Mr. Edward, laughed more loosely. It wasn't girlish and flighty nor was it soaked in false innocence or trickery. His laughter was loud, boisterous, and impish- like he knew the key to some secret and was laughing at the expense of those hearing it. Edward loved the sound in spite of its harshness.

“Have you ever strayed from your path home?” Oswald asked, knowing full well the double meaning of his words.

“No. I tend to keep to the familiar line of trees, especially at night,” he chewed on his bottom lip, ashamed of his cowardice, “Do you propose some adventure?”

“I know these woods like my home,” he said, “In many ways, the Gotham Woods _is_ my home. I would like to show you something if I am allowed your trust.”

“Lead the way.”

They deviated from the path until they came upon a thicket of trees much too dense for either of their horses. After securing them in a relatively safe location, Edward followed his friend down the darkened path. It was shrouded to the point of blackness but he trusted that his valet and mentor would get him safely to the other side of the sharp briar and underbrush.

Like a breath of fresh air, he came out into the clearing. The sudden, blinding moonlight danced across the inky surface of the small pond. He had to rub at his eyes are the sudden change of light.

“I come here often. There are usually swans on the water,” Oswald smiled as he leaned against a tree.

“You like birds,” Edward stepped closer.

“I've always loved them. Was envious of their ability to fly away,” he chuckled, “Seems fitting that I am often compared to a flightless one.”

“Penguins may not be able to fly but I hear they are agile swimmers,” he blushed, having already begun divesting himself of his tailcoat, “Care to join me?”

“And ruin the clothes you've given me?” Oswald scoffed.

“Then remove them,” Edward raised an eyebrow just as he kicked away his boots and began working on the buttons of his trousers.

“ _Edward,”_ he squawked.

“Why do you exclaim so? It is only the two of us,” he removed the last of his clothes and threw them at his friend.

Oswald pulled the cloth from over his face in enough time to see Mr. Edward's exposed rear-end jumping into the water. He shook his head in disbelief. The nerve of the man.

“How is the water?” he asked as he carefully folded Mr. Edward's clothes into neat little squares and hung them over a dry branch away from the mud and insects.

“Excellent,” he smiled and splashed some of the water towards the shore.

Oswald chuckled at his carefree friend who was stripped to the skin under the cover of the water. He swallowed. There really was no point in keeping his friend waiting and he _did_ enjoy a good swim. It was often the only exercise he could indulge that took the pressure off of his leg and mangled ankle. Though, normally he was by his lonesome.

He removed his clothes until he was equally in the buff and placed them on the branch next to Edward's. With a deep inhale, he made his way towards the water- ignoring Edward's scalding gaze on his unprotected form.

He jumped into the water and winced at the initial bite of cold. Oswald regained his footing and firmly planted his feet in the mud. The dark water covered him from the waist down. He looked around but saw no signs of Mr. Edward. For a moment, he feared he may have been abandoned. His eyes quickly scanned the line of trees to see if his clothes remained where he'd left them. There was no evidence of foul play but a subtle pressure in the water indicated someone was swimming towards him. He looked down to see a mop of curly brown hair breach the black pond water.

Edward stood- the waterline barely covering his shame, or lack thereof in this instance- and wiped the water away from his face. Their bodies glistened and their forms were accentuated by the pale moonlight.

“You have many scars,” Edward leaned in, far too close, and ran a mischievous finger across the raised pearlescent skin. He archived each one and calculated the amount of force used to create each mar upon the man's flesh.

“As do you,” Oswald pointed out with a frown. He was rather stunned to see the hatch marks across Edward's chest and arms.

“All courtesy of my father,” Edward admitted, his jaw tight. He shook his head, “What of yours?”

“I confess I have lost track,” he chuckled, “Many were from alehouse brawls. Others from fellow scoundrels and deviants.”

Edward's eyes flickered down to the smaller man's shoulder. His eyes widened in an instant and his hand clasped over the exposed, wet strips of linen. Blood poured down Oswald's exposed torso.

“Don't squirm,” Edward added more pressure, “We need to abate the bleeding.”

“You're so close...” Oswald barely spoke above a whisper. He hadn't even realized he'd said anything until Edward smiled so brightly at him.

“I was not thinking properly. Swimming will only agitate your wound. We should get you out of the water,” Edward used his off hand to move the dark, wet hair from Oswald's brow.

“A moment longer,” he requested, breathlessly, “I like the water.”

“You will catch a chill if we stay too long.”

“I assure you, Mr. Edward, I am plenty warm,” Oswald admitted.

“How did you do it?” Edward asked suddenly.

“Do what?” his head spun.

“Seize my heart so viciously,” he exhaled, “What spell do you have me under?”

“No spells,” he assured him, “No potions or poisons or witchcraft.”

“Lies,” he snickered, “But I would like to enjoy this feeling until it dissolves at sunrise.”

“Are you certain it will dissolve?” Oswald asked, suddenly uneasy.

“I suppose we could always prevent such misfortune by sealing this spell,” Edward held Oswald's face in his hands. His head was heavy and warm.

“A kiss perhaps?” Oswald asked, leaning forward.

Their lips met like dew on roses. The barest hint of sweet arrack and lime at the tip of Edward's tongue shook Oswald's core. He lost his balance in the slippery mud but Edward was quick to catch him. It wasn't the first kiss Edward had ever experienced but it was certainly the first to light his entire mind and heart aflame... and he wouldn't give it up for all the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help referencing Sir Tristan and Lady Isolde (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I took on too many projects and had to take care of myself before I started to resent all of them. Thanks for understanding.
> 
> NOTE: “playing backgammon” (if you haven't already figured out the wordplay) was often used as a euphemism for being gay. Just keep that in mind. Ya know... for reasons.
> 
> Also... apologies in advance.

Oswald awoke with a smile. It was not often that he could greet the dawn in good spirits, but the last several weeks had been the best of his life.

“Why do you look at me so?” Oswald looked into his mother's knowing eyes through the mirror as he adjusted his cravat and coat.

“My boy is in love,” she cooed.

“Nonsense,” he spoke, but could not retract his elated smile.

“Bah!” she exclaimed, playfully hitting him with the end of her apron, “A mother knows these things.”

She walked over to him and, with delicate fingers, styled the errant wisps of hair from his face and tucked away unsightly folds in the lavender silk. She looked into her son's eyes and smiled fondly.

“I do not yet know if it is love that I feel,” Oswald confessed, “I have never known of it outside of my love for you.”

Gertrud nodded, understanding. She held his face in her hands, “You will know. And, when you do, promise me you will not break his heart. He is delicate.”

“Edward is _far_ from delicate,” Oswald chuckled, “How did you know it was him?”

“I have seen the way he looks at you. And you at him,” she narrowed her eyes, “You both look hungry.”

“ _Hunger_ is not love.”

“Love has many layers. Hunger is one of them,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

“Not _necessarily,”_ he stammered, embarrassed to be talking about such things with his mother.

“I am not speaking vulgarities,” she pinched his cheek, “Hunger can mean many things. You two hunger for connection.”

“Why do you say that?”

Gertrud sighed and sat down at the small table in their shared quarters, “I have denied you many things.”

“Mother...” Oswald sat next to her, his hand atop her own. This was not a new conversation for them and he knew of her guilt. He held no resentment for the decisions she made to keep him close to her but he knew she remained conscience-stricken.

“I am sometimes ashamed of that,” she confessed, the air thick with decades of regret, “When you toss and turn in the cold or when you arrive late in the night with bloodstained clothes.”

“I—”

“—No. Let me speak,” she wiped away her tears, “I know that you crave all of these things I kept from you. I want you to take what is yours and not make the same mistakes that I did in my youth. Mr. Edvard _loves_ you. He is like an open book.”

“You can see that in him?” Oswald asked hesitantly.

“Would I lie?” she smirked, “He is a romantic. His heart will break easily. Treat it as fondly as you do mine. That is my advice to you.”

“Thank you,” he pulled her hands to his lips and kissed her labor-calloused knuckles, “What would I ever do without you?”

* * *

Oswald felt as though his head were in a barrel— wading through the blood pooled 'round his ankles and in his ears. The usual ring of clarity whenever Mr. Edward spoke to him was muffled by his own wayward thoughts. What those thoughts were, he could not quite discern.

“Are you familiar with Hamlet?” Mr. Edward asked.

“No. I am afraid I'm not.”

“Here!” Edward handed him the book, “You read from here. I think I would quite like to hear it in your voice.”

“...I can't.”

“Don't be shy. I will not judge your acting prowess.”

“No, I mean I cannot read it,” Oswald grit his teeth, clapping the book closed, “I never learned.”

“Your mother never taught you?”

“You think _she_ knows?” he growled at Edward's flippancy.

“...I suppose I never thought about it.”

“Of course you didn't,” he huffed briskly through his pointed nose, “I can read Hungarian. And a little Dutch. But not English.”

“You speak so eloquently, I assumed you were well-read.”

“You assume many things, Mr. Edward,” Oswald bit his tongue.

“Shall I teach you then?”

“You? A teacher?” he laughed.

“Is that really such a humorous notion?” Edward couldn't help but laugh alongside him. The thought sounded ridiculous even to his own ear.

“I suppose I could be _persuaded_ to switch places—You become my teacher, and I the student.”

“I was rather hoping you would find some benefit to our relationship,” he smirked.

“Your company is benefit enough,” Oswald felt himself confess, the words spilling from his lips before he could trap them behind his tongue. The candidness of his utterance left him flush. Edward took a step forward and trailed a finger down his sharp jawline.

The sound of someone clearing their throat from the doorway disturbed their moment.

“Ah, Ms. Sasha. I did not hear you come in,” Edward attempted to hide his scowl at the inopportune interruption.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she gave them a snake-like grin, “I was hoping that Mr. Edward would accompany me in the garden.”

The two men exchanged a look before Edward politely offered his arm to the lithe brunette. He humored her as they walked down the grassy path. Had he been with Oswald, he would be delighted by the rare Gotham sun. Instead, his head hurt and he was compulsively counting the seconds until he could retreat indoors. In truth, he cared more for the fact that the rose bushes were wilted than he did her glib-tongued vagaries.

She was a terrible actress. The timing of her fluttering lashes anytime he looked at her and the stench of her floral perfume made his teeth hurt and his nose retract into his skull. She cared not for him or his whimsical balladry. She was not unattractive, by any means, but she was sorely lacking in key areas. He was honestly ashamed that he had bothered feigning politeness.

“Has that poor man always had a limp? I don't see how he can accomplish his job efficiently with that unsightly _waddle_ of his,” she chortled, “My father could find you a more suitable valet if you wished. We have _many_ servants at our estate up North.”

Edward rolled his eyes. These suitors were all the same. All of them routinely tried to impress him with their wealth and status as if he did not already have those privileges readily supplied, “Oswald was chosen by _me_ for many reasons. He may appear beetle-headed to one such as yourself but, under the mask of simplicity, lie a cunning fellow.”

“It is so odd that he would have someone so handsome and charming wrapped around his finger,” she leaned in, not-so-subtly revealing her assets, “Would you truly rather spend your time with someone so dull and simple than with a woman who can better appreciate all that you offer them?”

“You haven't a single flower in that mind of yours worth plucking.”

“P-Pardon me?” she blinked— scandalized.

“Did my father send you?” he asked, “Or was it perhaps your fortune-hunter mother who painted your face in unflattering rouge to waste my precious hours?”

“I know not what you mean,” she glared.

Edward laughed, his voice echoing off of the stone, “You and your dolorous family would have made more progress had you sent your brother my direction. Though, I already have my needs met at the moment. No need to sully your virtue any further.”

Ms. Sasha did not bother responding. She turned her head and made her way toward the small guesthouse on the estate grounds. Edward sighed. He would no doubt need to anticipate his father's wrath later. He only hoped that no one he cared about was caught in the crossfire of his bellowing anger.

“Mr. Edward?”

Edward growled and turned toward the offending voice. To his surprise, he saw Ms. Kristen. Her eyes were wet. His expression immediately softened.

“I'm sorry,” he narrowed his brow, “I did not see you approach. Is everything alright, Ms. Kristen?”

“Yes... I... I just needed some fresh air.”

“You look flushed,” he held her by the shoulders, “You ran all this way?”

“I... um...” she stammered and then buried her face into his chest.

Edward, uncertain of how to comfort his friend, patted her about the shoulders and waited for her tears to subside. His nose wrinkled at the peculiar scent that lie soaked into her hair follicles and linens.

“Was something on fire? You smell of soot,” he looked down at her hands and noticed that the tips of her fingers were singed, “Ms. Kristen, what happened?”  
  


“He burned them... all of them...”

“Burned what?”

“All of my work! He didn't even spare the blank parchment,” she cried, “I tried pulling them out of the fire but all I managed to do was hurt myself.”

“Who—”

“— _There you are,”_ a gruff voice interrupted them.

Up walked the deceptively charming Constable Dougherty. Ed frowned when he saw the man tuck a bloodied kerchief into his pocket. His frown deepened as he felt his dear friend tense under his careful hold.

“What seems to be the problem, Constable?” Edward asked, instinctively putting himself between Ms. Kristen and her lover.

Constable Dougherty relied heavily on his masculine brutishness and tobacco-stained smile. The display had been enough to fool Ms. Kristen. Edward felt his fist tighten.

“No problem. I'm just here to fetch my girl is all,” he turned his attention to the stammering redhead and Edward could see his intentions darken, “Unless you would rather stay here with this bully trap?”

Kristen looked up at him with a pleading look. Edward felt his heart break the moment he saw that sparkle fade from her eyes. He watched as her voice died in her throat and mourned it instantly.

“I still have some of your notes and early drafts in my desk. I'm certain all of the words are still tucked away in that brain of yours,” he smiled, ignoring the Constable's presence in favor of comforting his friend. She shuddered at the compliment like it hurt.

“Let's not deceive ourselves. There isn't much going for her above the bosom,” the brute interjected.

“I beg your pardon?” Edward felt his limbs grow numb in anger, “Ms. Kristen is one of the brightest women I have had the luxury of knowing and you would come here and claim that she—”

“— _Edward,”_ she interrupted him, tugging his sleeve, “I was wrong in coming here. I allowed my feet to walk away with me.”

His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of the bruises peppering her wrist. She was quick to cover them before returning to the constable's side. Her head hung low as made her way down the winding trail leading back to the Kringle estate.

“Women need firm handling,” Constable Dougherty spoke, “A fact that is doubly assured with Ms. Kristen. There is quite a tongue on that one.”

Edward clenched his fists at his side, “I will not allow you to hurt her.”

“What can _you_ do, Mr. Edward?” he scoffed, “Bore me to death with your riddles? That might work for your scholarly friends, but you will have no such luck with me.”

“Like the Church that sprinkles due from my herbs of grace, I will demand more repentance yet. Tragedy, dear Ophelia wore me in her lace. Fools cross me, and I fill you with a bitter set!"

The constable rolled his eyes, “What?”

“ _Rue,”_ Mr. Edward spat, “You will regret your actions. Mark my words, constable.”

* * *

The former scullion and highwayman was quite taken with Mr. Edward's cleverness and the pleasurable sting of his words. The man would often cease his musings to eye his valet and Oswald would smile warmly in reassurance that he was still as enamored as he was moments prior. They formed a kinship in that.

Oswald often felt unseen by those he interacted with due to the mask he was forced to wear— even to the other rogues who routinely underestimated him. It was a feeling Edward claimed familiarity with. In spite of his demeanor, he was often required to repress his usual quirks to avoid embarrassing Sir Nashton's name. Those expectations changed daily and Mr. Edward would often be left standing wrong-footed.

They shared no intimacies since their moment at the pond. Oswald feared that he had fallen victim to the man's charms like so many before him. If so, it was cruel that Mr. Edward continued to hold him so close. It was as if that kiss marked him and the spoiled noble had claimed him like so many of the treasures in his curio. Oswald and his secrets were no more than an oddity he kept locked away for his own amusement.

Oswald held no regrets for his moment of weakness. Better to have had a moment of romance than to have denied himself the pleasure and wish that he had not. There was also the added benefit that he was not forced to pretend around the taller man. However, Mr. Edward was keen to continue his flirtations as the time passed by. This made it _exceedingly_ difficult to concentrate on his duties.

Edward brought a forkful of roasted artichokes to his lips— making a lascivious show out of moaning in his valet's direction. Oswald's eyes darted around the table at the glares he received from Sir Nashton and the Lady Van Dahl. Mr. Charles seemed just as rattled by the display as he was and nearly toppled his wine. Ms. Sasha— scorned and flustered by Mr. Edward's dismissal of her earlier in the day— stabbed at her plate.

“I could not agree more,” Lord Van Dahl smiled, amused, “My compliments to your cook.”

Oswald cleared his throat before returning his attention to his own meal. Mr. Edward insisted that his newly appointed valet be allowed to join them for dinner. Sir Nashton initially refused but, to everyone's surprise, Lord Van Dahl requested his presence as well.

After the ball, Oswald had asked his mother about the baron and the Van Dahl family. Frustratingly, she waved off all of his questionings. He found her silence off-putting. She never used to keep secrets from him, or so he thought. He never even knew that she had been sent away. The circumstances of how she had come to work at the Nashton estate remained a worrisome mystery.

“I hear that you have quite the vast range of studies, Mr. Edward,” the Baron spoke, “I take it you have many aspirations for your future?”

“I was thinking of becoming a highwayman,” Edward said with a cheeky smile. Oswald knew he was likely serious in his farcical statement and rolled his eyes at such a risky exclaimation.

“Edward!” his mother scolded.

Lord Van Dahl chuckled, “I am certain you would be quite good at it with that wit of yours.”

“One does not need wit to be a criminal, dear,” Lady Grace chortled.

“You need wit to be good at anything,” he smiled warmly, “And what of you, Oswald? What aspirations do you possess?”

“Uh...” Oswald looked around at the scandalized faces at the Baron's inquiry, “Working in the scullery doesn't foster much aspiration.”

“Ah, but I do not believe that for one moment,” he said, “You have that look in your eye. It is the same look from my youth.”

“Don't you think it's cruel to get the man's hopes up, Elijah,” Lady Grace sneered, “A former scullion with no education or talents? The poor thing is lucky Mr. Edward took pity upon him and made him his valet.”

Oswald glanced up at Edward. He looked as though some rabid _thing_ vibrated around his insides— gnawing at his marrow and boiling his blood. His pupils were blown wide and resembled darkened pits of snarling anger. Edward opened his mouth to spit fire at the Lady Van Dahl, but it was not his voice that Oswald heard.

“I have looked into this man's soul and seen gold. I believe Oswald is more than capable of seizing his moment on his own,” Lord Van Dahl spoke in a crisp and clear tone, “But, if a formal education is all that he lacks, I would be more than happy to provide it.”

“You cannot be serious,” Lady Grace gawked.

“I am,” his calm smile returned,” So long as Mr. Edward and Sir Nashton approve.”

“I want what Oswald wants,” Edward's expression softened. He and Oswald locked eyes across the table and the valet could not help the warmth that blossomed in his chest at the sincerity. The moment, however, did not last. Side-splitting laughter filled the hall as Sir Nashton lost any semblance of humble decorum.

“You would be wasting your time, Lord Van Dahl. We have known him all his life and I assure you the boy has hay in his brains just like his mother.”

“You take that back!” Oswald spat, standing suddenly, “My mother is a saint!”

“A saint with a _bastard_ son who was lucky I did not leave her out in the rain when she came begging for work. The two of you owe your lives to me. Had it not been for _my_ mercy, you two would have been eaten alive by the riffraff in Gotham Wood.”

“If you do not appreciate the good and loyal services of Gertrud and her son, my wife and I will happily employ them at our estate,” Lord Vand Dahl spoke.

“Elijah, do not say things you do not mean,” Lady Grace smiled and tried to place her hand atop her husband's. He pulled away.

“Gertrud served my family in her youth. We would be delighted to have her return home.”

“And yet your family sent us away,” Oswald muttered under his breath.

Lord Van Dahl looked saddened by that. With a sigh, he glanced over to Edward who looked as though his heart had been pulled from his chest. The baron gave him a knowing stare.

“Oswald, of course, can remain Mr. Edward's valet,” he smiled when Ed's ears perked up, “I can pay his salary. I would even be willing to pay you room and board, Sir Nashton.”

“I will make no such deal.”

“May I ask why?”

“They are _my_ servants. I already have to replace my scullion because of my son's foolish infatuations. I will not part with one of my cooks also.”

“I have many servants at my estate who could—”

“—No. I have already rejected your offer and I will _not_ change my mind.”

“Very well,” he sighed, disappointed. He turned to Oswald, “My offer stays firm on providing you an education if you wish it.”

“That will not be necessary, Lord Van Dahl,” Sir Nashton growled, gargling whiskey behind his teeth.

“You are the boy's employer, not his owner,” Lord Van Dahl glared.

“They are indebted to me,” Sir Nashton glared back.

“Why do you not admit that you simply want to control him?” Mr. Edward interrupted, an exasperated smile plastered across his face.

“Edward... Don't. Not here,” his mother pleaded.

“No, I believe here and now is as good a time as any! I have been avoiding father since returning home. I'm sure he has a few words for me.”

“Lord Van Dahl, I apologize on behalf of my son. He does not always recognize that he is an utter embarrassment,” Sir Nashton ignored his son's stare and motioned for a nearby servant to refill his glass.

“I commend Mr. Edward for being unafraid to speak his mind,” he gave Edward a reassuring look, “To his family or even mine. I heard that Ms. Sasha and you had quite the exchange in the garden this morning.”

“Yes. My apologies for having turned down yet another empty-headed braggadocia.”

Mr. Charles laughed at his sister's expense. Lady Grace did not find it as amusing as her husband did. Sir Nashton also found no enjoyment in being reminded of it. He pounded his fist on the table, causing everyone to yelp and stare.

“I will be retiring for the remainder of the evening,” Mr. Edward announced, “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

Had Edward been slower, Oswald very well might have slit Sir Nashton's throat. He almost wished that he had for such a slight against his mother and friend. If anything, he sorely wished to prove a point that he was smart enough to have deceived them all these years and would not tolerate such venom aimed at the man he... cared deeply for.

“Will you attend to me upstairs, my friend?”

Oswald blushed, “Y-Yes. Of course.”

He straightened his posture and marched passed Sir Nashton's spiteful glare and tried his damnest not to return it in kind.

Oswald closed the door to Edward's bedroom and smiled at how his friend sprawled dramatically across his favorite green chair. His hair hung about in ringlets. It was an attractive look for sure, but Oswald maintained an air of professionalism and chose not to chase after those thoughts.

“You caused quite the scene at dinner,” he said, tending to the fire before sitting in the chair across from Mr. Edward.

“My father was merely throwing a tantrum. Pay it no mind.”

“You insulted the Van Dahls.”

“That I did,” Edward said with a smile, “Though, I suppose I should apologize to you. You seem to have gotten close with Lord Van Dahl.”

“I have,” Oswald said with a furrow to his brow, “For the life of me, I know not why. He seems to have taken an interest in me.”

“Conversations with you are certainly far more intellectually stimulating than anything those addlepated bafoons have spewing from their mouth holes,” Edward picked up the nearest book from the table and anxiously flipped through the pages.

“True,” he chuckled, “Though, Mr. Charles _is_ quite attractive. And decently well-read. He kept batting his lashes at me across the table. Do you think I am his type?”

Edward glared over the rim of his book.

“I am only teasing,” he leaned back in the tuffeted chair, “Why do you keep turning away offers?”

“Married life does not suit me,” Edward explained, turning a page.

“What of your future then?”

“I suspect my father will die by the old barrel fever and I will reap the inheritance.”

“Alone?”

“If I must be,” Edward bit his lip and then asked, “Do you play backgammon?”

Oswald fluttered his lashes at that, “I don't play. But, were I to... _indulge_ , I would prefer backgammon. Yes.”

“Care to have a go?” Edward raised an eyebrow, holding out his hand toward his friend.

Oswald swallowed the lump in his throat before slowly making his way across the room and giving Edward his hand. They felt feverish and laughter bubbled in Edward's throat. He led Oswald towards the table nearest the curio and pulled out the wooden game board.

“You were expecting something else?” Edward teased, fondling the small stone pieces in his hand.

“Just an innocent game of backgammon,” Oswald rolled his eyes, “Were _you_ expecting something else, Mr. Edward?”

Edward smirked as he set up the game. They played a few rounds in silence. Oswald would occasionally look up at his friend only to see him deep in thought, which was to be expected. The only time the man was _ever_ quiet was when he was thinking about a particularly troublesome subject. Oswald enjoyed his banter, but he did like seeing the man like this. He enjoyed how they could comfortably exist with one another without feeling as though they had to entertain some notion that they were someone else entirely.

“Have you tried absinthe?” Mr. Edward asked, shifting his pieces to the next lane.

“I am afraid there is not much absinthe to be appreciated down in the whiskey cellars of Gotham's underground.”

“I always drink it alone,” Edward confessed with a frown, “I think I would like to share it with you.”

“I want what you want,” Oswald smiled, echoing Edward's words back at him.

Edward smiled and leaned forward across the backgammon board. Oswald felt his spine stiffen. There was a pained shift in his friend's expression as he pulled away and walked over towards a rather intricate fountain on the table near the bar.

“I first discovered absinthe on a trip to France,” Mr. Edward explained as he poured a small amount of the green liquid into a reservoir glass, “Though, it originated in Switzerland.”

“Is it a wine?” Oswald asked, curiously looking over the bottle.

“It begins its life as a neutral spirit made from grapes before being infused with botanicals. Anise. Fennel. Wormwood,” he set the glasses beneath the fountain, “It is quite popular among free thinkers and artists.”

“Because it is expensive?”

“No, because it requires alchemy,” he placed slotted spoons and sugar atop their glasses.

“Alchemy?”

“Of sorts. Yes,” he turned the handle on the spigot and allowed for the water to slowly drip over the sugar and into the glass.

Oswald watched as the bright green liquid swirled around the glass and gained an opalescent sheen. It glowed as though it were bathed in moonlight.

“It must be such a beautiful existence to be able to be transmuted,” Mr. Edward stared at the droplets of water that splashed into the glass.

“How so?”

“With a simple chemical reaction, you can become something... new. Better. Different. You can transmute carbon into gold. Heat and pressure can transform soil into gemstones.”

“And you wish you could do the same?” Oswald asked.

“I do,” he added a few drops of laudanum to the cube of white sugar.

“Is that what the opium is for?” Oswald pointed to the opiate, “Your attempt at chemically altering yourself in the hope of transforming into something better?”

“Perhaps,” Edward frowned and then handed Oswald the glass of ethereal liquid.

It was a bolder flavor than he was used to. It did not have the burn of whiskey or rum but was not quite as sweet as liqueur. The anise lingered around his tongue and transformed into an almost caramel aftertaste. When he exhaled, he could taste the fennel on his breath.

“I think I am partial to wine,” Oswald set his glass down and leaned across the table, “Though... perhaps I will like it better if it were from _your_ glass.”

“Mine is empty.”

In a rare moment of boldness, Oswald grabbed the taller man's cravat and pulled him closer. Their lips crashed together like waves on a shore. Oswald lapped at the seam of Edward's lips and smiled when he was allowed entrance. Their tongues lathed together and Oswald savored the flavor.

“Yes,” Oswald exhaled, “I do like this better.”

Edward considered himself a connoisseur of the finer, hedonistic pleasures of life and Oswald had already proven to be the finest drug. More decadent than opium. More delectable than sweet anise and absinthe. Their lips parted and Edward whined at the absence. If he could exist eternally in a moment with Oswald's lips on his, he would happily stay there.

“What was on your mind during our game?” Oswald asked, “Was it about me or has someone else stolen your eye?”

Edward's eyes fluttered as he came back from his reverie. His friend's words took longer to process as the opium took hold of him and he drowned in the man's blue-green irises.

“I was thinking about Ms. Kristen...”

“Oh,” Oswald pulled away abruptly and crossed his arms.

“You misunderstand! I... I was...”

“Go on,” Oswald tongued his cheek angrily, “Tell me all about your fire-haired bluestocking.”

“Oswald... truly,” he placed his hand over his heart, “I was just lost in thought about her safety earlier. That is all.”

“She's in danger?” Oswald's posture became less tense, “Is it because of Constable Dougherty?”

“Yes,” Edward snarled, “He... He told me that women were in need of firm handling. He burned her writings. I fear she believes him when he questions her brilliance and it pains me to see her hurt in such a way.”

“You wish to protect her?”

“Yes,” Edward sighed, “But I know not how.”

“I have talent for such matters,” Oswald grinned, his teeth appeared sharpened to a point. Vengeful and yet delectable all the same.

* * *

Mr. Edward cataloged each detail of the man's innards. His textbooks were not entirely accurate and that was something he would make sure to correct in his own anatomical drawings. He was gifted with an excellent memory and so those details and the vividness of the colors would not leave his mind easily.

As the tap-hackled constable gasped for air, Edward smiled viciously and stuffed a handful of small yellow flowers down his throat to choke on.

“Rue?” Oswald asked, “I take it that has meaning?”

“It does,” Edward grinned as he watched his victim's eyes widen and grow cloudy. He felt himself laugh as he looked down at the hunting knife in his hand he had just used to carve the man asunder. He could barely hear his own cackling through the rush of blood in his ears.

He felt as though he were standing outside himself— able to watch as he and his dearest friend buried the remains of the drunken souse. The way they worked in tandem to drain the life from the man and then dispose of him made Edward feel alive. Feel seen and wholly connected for the first time in his life.

They returned to the Nashton estate under the cover of night. Oswald knew the best way to sneak in unnoticed since he had been doing it for nearly thirty years. Edward allowed himself to be led by the hand through the pitch-black corridors and up the staircase leading toward his room. He felt a bit like a pesky rat that had just gotten away with stealing something valuable. In this case ,it had been someone's very life.

Oswald relieved himself of his coat and worked on removing the remaining blood from his hands. Edward, entranced, walked forward.

“Oh, were I like a mirror so that I may reflect that sincere fierceness back upon you and you may understand firsthand the extent to which you have conquered me.”

“Then do so,” Oswald's voice was low, smokey.

“What?”

“Don't just shower me with your pretty words. Put your hands upon me!”

Edward's swift and bloodied hands slid up the man's jaw and into his dark hair. He tipped the velvet with his tongue, teasing Oswald's mouth. The smaller man stood on his toes to crash their lips together with more ferocity. The movement made Edward unsteady on his feet. His momentary loss of balance caused him to knock over the backgammon board, scattering the pieces all over the floor. Shortly after, they too were rolling around on the floor.

The dawn greeted them in bed the following morning. Their legs were tangled under a thin linen sheet as Edward nibbled at Oswald's bottom lip. His heart felt full as he gazed at his lover's face.

“May I have your hand?” he whispered, shocked he was able to get the words out at all.

“Are... Are you making an offer?” Oswald chuckled, doubting the brunette's sincerity.

“Will you marry me?” Ed caressed his cheek, “Please say yes.”

Silence filled the distance between them. Seconds ticked on.

“Oswald?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Oswald... I love you. Do you doubt that?”

More silence.

“Let me make love to you again and jog your memory of it,” Edward said, rolling on top of Oswald and pinning him beneath him.

“Your father would never approve,” Oswald shook his head, “You would be throwing your life away.”

“What good is that life if you are not in it?”

Oswald's eyes sparkled. Edward leaned forward and kissed his lover once more. Firmly and reassuring.

“I will speak to my father and get his blessing.”

“It would be a mistake.”

“I will make him see,” Edward held his face in his hands like it was the most precious thing he possessed. In fairness, he was, “It may take time. But please do not push me away now that I have you and know, without a shred of doubt, that it is you that I want.”

“I would never dream of it.”

Edward watched as the man drifted back into restful sleep. Oswald would normally be ready to greet the day long before he ever stirred, but the comfort of his bed and their nightly activities must have worn him through. Edward wrapped his housecoat around him and stood by the window. The Gotham morning was just as dreary as it always was. A sea of grey and muted blue that dulled the senses. The only cure for such drabary would be to flaunt one's colors as boldly as one could. He looked forward to the day he and Oswald could do just that.

A commotion caught his eye. Some of the servants fled across the field toward the estate and stables. Oswald hadn't stirred since earlier that morning and Edward was loathed to disturb him. He put on his slippers and made his way down the stairs.

“Oh, Mr. Edward! This is terrible!” one of the servants exclaimed.

Without another thought, he followed after them out toward the garden. His heart dropped into his stomach when he saw the body on the ground. He knew from the moment he saw her who she was but disbelieved it anyway. Edward fell to his knees and crawled towards her. She'd been dead for hours based on the stiffness of her limbs. He moved her hair from her face and tried not to gag at the foam that pooled around her mouth.

"Fetch the coroner," he instructed as tears streamed down his face. The servants had grown silent as he held the woman in his arms. Realizing they had not moved, he looked up to scold them for not doing as they were told. He gasped as Oswald approached them— erratic and clawing at the crowd as he made his way to them.

Oswald pushed Edward aside as he held his mother's body in his arms and screamed out into the field.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Edward reads aloud to Oswald is _A Hymn to the Moon_ (1758) by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Detective James Gordon, civil and lawful in principle, stood in the parlor. His tailcoat and breeches were as dreary a blue as the Gotham sky that afternoon. The air was thick— filled to the brim with pipe smoke and grief.

“And where were you on the eve of her collapse, Mr. Edward?” Detective Gordon asked.

“I have already told you and Detective Bullock of my whereabouts,” Edward rubbed at his temples, exhaling a thick plum of tobacco as he did, “I was with my valet, Oswald.”

“All night?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Detective?” he smirked and delighted in the blush that filled the man's cheeks.

He tapped the last of the burning embers into the ceramic tray and stood, gliding across the polished floor. He was uncertain what sort of slug had settled in his chest, but gazing down at the fair-haired detective made him feel weighty and harsh. Perhaps _repugnance_ was the more accurate expression.

“I am curious, though...” Mr. Edward turned to him, his hands clasped behind his back, “Detective Bullock believes that she collapsed from a simple fever. However, you share my belief that she was murdered. Why is that?”

“The situation does not sit well with me,” the detective told him, “My instincts tell me there was foul play.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Mr. Edward stepped forward, “But why would someone murder a kitchen maid? Especially one as adored as Gertrud.”

Detective Gordon shifted uncomfortably as he slowly made his suggestion, “Perhaps she was not the intended target? It is also possible that someone chose to hurt her because of who her son is.”

“And who exactly do you think my Oswald is?” he raised an eyebrow, curious how much the slippery Detective knew.

“Oh, I believe you know, Mr. Edward,” Detective Gordon sneered, his expression curling in knots like a foul smell descended upon the room, “You are an intelligent man. Surely you are privy to that sort of information.”

“I know not of what you speak of, Detective,” his smile curved upwards, “Unless you are telling _me_ a riddle?”

* * *

Mr. Edward carefully took the tray from the young maid and carried it up the steps to where Oswald slept. It would certainly not be the same as having breakfast brought to him by his dearest mother, but Edward hoped that the gesture would help quiet his lover's mind. He stepped through the threshold, tray in hand, and made for the rumpled lump of linens.

“You are awake,” Mr. Edward set the tray on the table next to the bed, “I can tell by the way you breathe.”

With a sigh, Oswald moved the blanket just under his nose. His seafoam eyes were swollen and red-lined like some vibrant and melancholic painting. The sight of such misery made Mr. Edward's heart sink like a stone.

“You should eat,” he said.

“I am not hungry,” Oswald replied.

“Water then,” he lifted the glass but it was quickly knocked away, sloshing liquid upon the floor. Mr. Edward felt a spark of irritation ignite behind his eyes but there was no resentment to accompany it. He placed the glass back on the tray and sat in the chair beside the fire.

Mr. Edward stared at the letters on the page but he did not read them. Focusing instead on the crackling fire and the despaired sniffling from the bed. He was grateful for Oswald's eyes to not be on his for once as he allowed himself to sulk and frown. The household was colder without Gertrud's warmth.

His fingers trailed over the ink before settling on a poem. The words made him smile as he read them aloud, _“Thou silver deity of secret night, direct my footsteps through the woodland shade; Thou conscious witness of unknown delight, the Lover's guardian, and the Muse's aid...”_

Oswald rolled over then and peeked out from under the covers. Mr. Edward stood, a loving grin kissing the edges of his mouth, as he carried the book towards the bed. He continued.

“ _By thy pale beams I solitary rove, to thee my tender grief confide; Serenely sweet you gild the silent grove. My friend... my goddess... and my guide.”_

He leaned in to kiss his lover and felt his heart shatter the moment Oswald protested.

“You would push me away?” Edward sulked, his voice so meek he scarcely recognized it.

Oswald sat up hastily in his bed, his fiery eyes locked with Edward's, “And you would take advantage of me in my grief?”

“Of course not!” Edward reached out toward his lover and grasped at his arms, “I am only trying to comfort you, my love.”

“Then do so without touching me,” Oswald threw the blanket over his head and curled into a ball.

“I did not realize my touch wounded you so...”

“It doesn't!” he was swift to correct, but his voice was haggard and glum. He curled into the blankets further, “But... find some other way to show your love. I am in too much pain.”

“As you wish,” Mr. Edward clapped the book closed and left the room without another word.

* * *

With the Detectives gone and the estate now quiet, Mr. Edward ventured downstairs toward the servants quarters. No one greeted him in the halls. Every maid and steward was wrapped around their own— fearful for what a dead kitchen maid meant for them. Edward was quite familiar with the whispers on their breath, filled with tales of Sir Thomas Nashton's ill temper.

Mr. Edward entered the room at the end of the hall, slowly, his breath hitched at the back of his throat. He closed the door behind him and took in his surroundings. _What had she seen that evening?_ he wondered. He removed his glove and hovered his hand over the remnants in the fireplace, now cold. Edward frowned.

The room was filled with trinkets collected by the older woman over the years. Curiously, there wasn't much of Oswald in the tiny space. Unless you counted the small collection of colorful feathers on the mantle.

The furniture was modest— a small table where Gertrud and her son must have spent countless meals and idle conversation, a small cabinet for linens, and a single bed they shared. How often had Oswald slept on the floor, stinking of gunpowder and mud, after a long night in the Gotham wood?

He climbed into the bed and rested his head against the small pillow. He frowned up at the drab ceiling as he adjusted to the uncomfortable firmness of the mattress. The thought that Gertrud had spent her last night deprived of any luxury made his heart ache.

He rolled out of the tiny bed with a huff, his attention now on the small cup and kettle on the table. He opened the kettle and spooned out the tea leaves. Even upon close observation, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with them. No odor. No discoloration. He wrapped them in a handkerchief and pocketed it.

Gertrud likely had her tea and then ventured into the yard to collect vegetables from the garden to be used the following day before succumbing to whatever illness plagued her. If the tea was poisoned as he suspected, he had the method. It would not take much subterfuge to sneak into their quarters during hers and Oswald's work hours to add the poison. So, there were the means. All that was left to decipher was motive.

He pilfered through the trinkets and covered his nose as he sneezed from the years of dust that now drifted through the stale air. He took a step forward and heard the floor groan beneath his weight. When he looked down, he noticed that one of the floorboards had been pried open. He smirked, assuming that Oswald must have hidden some sort of treasure or even a weapon beneath the slats.

Wrapped in a cream-colored cloth was a tiny box— Rosewood, brass fittings, and a polished inlay. The lock was easy enough for any rum dubber to rummage through its contents. He frowned when all that he found were some bits of yellowed parchment.

Mr. Edward stared at the letters, immediately recognizing the language as Hungarian from his brief study of it after befriending Oswald. He could only recognize a few key phrases, but the signatures were unmistakable.

“Interesting...” he said aloud in his shock, the broken pieces suddenly slotting together to form a picture.

If these letters were not a forgery, then he held the motive solidly in his hands. All that remained now was for him to prove his theory.

* * *

The Kringle Estate was far more modest than the Nasthon's. It was more farmland than anything. But the quaint little garden that filled up with mud in the Gotham rain had been a source of joy for them as children. Ms. Kristen— with her ears too big for her head and two crooked front teeth— would wield sticks like swords and parry the young and lanky Mr. Edward to the ground. Ms. Isabella— with her floral head-wreaths and wet laughter— would lie in shadows with clumps of dirt ready to strike. Oh, how they would be scolded when they went indoors!

Adulthood, while just as adventurous, was far more daunting and sorely lacking whimsical charm. Mr. Edward's leg bounced as he chewed at his nails and listened for the horses outside. The missive he sent had surely reached its destination by now. He need only wait for the arrival of his colleague, Mr. Lucius Fox.

“Poor thing,” Ms. Isabella frowned, “How lucky of Oswald to have such a caring friend by his side.”

“Right now he requires a day off of his feet and a drink,” he forced a smile. The sting of his last conversation with Oswald lingered still. He turned his attention to the red-headed twin in the hopes of changing the subject, “You have been short of words this evening, Ms. Kristen.”

“My apologies. There is quite a lot on my mind,” she explained.

“Is this about Constable Dougherty?” Mr. Edward asked, feigning innocence.

“Yes,” Ms. Kristen sniffled, “He left me a letter, but I have not seen nor heard from him since.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Ms. Isabella proclaimed, “He was undeserving of you.”

“Agreed,” Edward tried not to smile too brightly at the memory of the Constable's blood on his hands, “Have you written anything since his passing— _since_ he's been missing?”

“I have,” she wiped tears from her eyes, “Would you like to hear it?”

“I would be delighted!” he shined and watched her as she excused herself to the study.

The quiet settled in his chest and Mr. Edward once again found himself pensive. He must have worn a dreadful frown because Ms. Isabella took it upon herself to make her way across the room and sit beside him.

“You look heartbroken,” she placed her hand upon his knee, “I hate seeing you in such a state. Did no one know of her illness?”

“Gertrud was murdered,” he stated plainly.

“Mr. Edward, you do not know that for certain.”

“Oh, but I do,” he stared her in the eye, “I need only test my hypothesis and provide proof of my findings.”

“She was such a kind soul. Why would someone wish harm upon Gertrud?”

“Because her son is the Van Dahl heir,” he confessed.

“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Isabella blinked in her confusion.

“She and the Baron Van Dahl had a child. Oswald.”

“...Does he know?”

“No,” Mr. Edward chewed at his nailbed, tasting sweetened copper, “But the Baron has taken an interest since meeting him at the ball. He likely suspects Oswald is his son and is hoping to bring him into their fold.”

“That is good news! He still has a family to welcome him,” her eyes glimmered, but her cheeriness slackened at Mr. Edward's dismayed expression, “Are you not happy for him?”

“No... I mean... _yes_ ,” he frowned, “He has the prospect of a future... a bright one. I am happy for him.”

“You do not look so, Mr. Edward,” she told him.

“Baron Van Dahl plans to return to the Netherlands. I fear that he will take Oswald with him.”

“I know that you are close, but you can always get another valet.”

“I love him,” Ed stifled a cry, “I love him and I do not wish for him to leave.”

“You... You are in _love_... with O-Oswald?” she stammered.

“Miraculous, I know,” Edward smiled, “I was beginning to think I was incapable, but he makes me feel all... peppery. Even my body betrays me and allows me to only look at him when he is near. I look at him and suddenly I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. Ms. Isabella, I can scarcely think! My mind goes quiet. But not the same quiet as in a dream. This is _restful._ I never realized how utterly exhausted I was. He makes me feel so at peace with myself. It is not something I have ever felt before in my life. Have you ever felt that?”

“That I have, Mr. Edward,” she spoke sadly, “Well... this is quite the carry witchet.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“W-What I mean is,” she cleared her throat, “Um... 'twould be a shame to have such a love go to waste. I hope that you find what you are looking for with this colleague of yours.”

“Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” Mr. Edward smiled as the man entered the room, escorted by Ms. Kristen.

“Good evening, Mr. Edward,” Lucius Fox greeted him, “Though, I fail to see why we could not meet at your father's estate.”

“I fear that would be unwise, given the dire circumstances.”

Mr. Lucius nodded and then turned toward his hosts, “Would it be alright if Mr. Edward and I spoke privately?”

“Of course,” Ms. Kristen smiled and then turned to her sister who seemed out of sorts, “Isabella?”

“Hm? Yes! Pardon, I was lost in thought,” she bowed her heard before scurrying off in a rush. Her sister followed close on her heels, leaving the two men alone— accompanied only by the fire, the setting sun, and a mountain of unanswered questions.

Mr. Lucius pulled a letter from his waistcoat. He sat down across from Mr. Edward as he read the missive aloud, _“Though I fear of seeming rude, One must check upon the time often, While looking into tea that's stewed, Of drinks served sour by Ms. Mary Ann Cotton.”_

“And?” Mr. Edward grinned.

With a sigh, Mr. Lucius continued, _“While seeking Foxglove or Larkspur, One must hunt with a quiet sole, The crafty menace with blazen fur, May scurry away to his foxhole.”_

“I assume you understood what I meant?” his grin widened into an unsettling smile, “You have always been one of the few who embraces my riddles.”

“ _Embrace_ may not be the most correct term, Mr. Edward. But... yes. I understood what it was you were asking of me.”

“And was my theory correct?” he leaned forward so that he could lower his voice.

“The tea was poisoned with Strychnine and it appears that is what killed your kitchen maid. And, yes...” he rolled his eyes, “...like a _Fox_ in his foxhole, I have not spoken a word of this to anyone nor drawn any suspicions as to what I have found.”

“Were I not already in love, your intelligence might woo me,” he chortled, “Thank you, Mr. Lucius.”

“Who do you suspect is the culprit?” he asked. Mr. Lucius and Mr. Edward did not have the most refined relationship. Truthfully, Mr. Edward saw them more as friends where Mr. Lucius was content keeping the maniacal man at arm's length as a reluctant colleague. However, even he was struck by the sudden loss of the kitchen maid Mr. Edward had always spoken so fondly of and feared that the man might involve himself in more dangerous matters.

Mr. Edward pulled another letter— sealed in wax— from his pocket and handed it to his friend, “Deliver this to Detective Gordon along with your findings.”

“I am a chemist and a man of business, not a delivery boy,” he glared.

“I am keenly aware,” he frowned, “But I do not know who else to trust and I fear I will run out of time before the killer attempts to strike at my heart once again.”

“Truthfully?” Mr. Lucius looked at him, his brow drawn tight in concern.

“As sure as my heart beats.”

“Very well,” Mr. Lucius took the letter in hand and hid it in his waistcoat pocket, “I will deliver it for you, but promise me you will stay out of trouble?”

“I will... consider it,” he gave a sly grin before dismissing himself and heading off toward the stables to return home and to Oswald's side. They had _much_ to discuss.

* * *

He arrived at the estate not long after— he promised to give his horse as many apples as she desired for getting them home in such a short time— and made for the stone steps leading toward the sanctity of his room. However, he was struck by an immense sense of foreboding as he passed by the parlor. The light from the fireplace shined in the hall and made the shadows dance like possessed specters reaching out with their claws and cloven feet to drag him into an abyss.

He stopped, took in a breath, and rounded the corner to greet his parents. His mother, bless her, was attempting to embroider by the firelight. She never was any good at it even in brighter conditions. Mr. Edward wondered which would come first, her eyes giving out from the strain or sewing her own hand to her needlecraft. His father, as expected, was slouched in his chair with a glass of amber in his hand.

“Sit,” the brute demanded.

It would be easier if he complied, so Mr. Edward made his way into the den of Hell and sat in the chair closest to his mother. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and placed the colored threads and muslin into her lap.

“Have you given any thought to your future?” his mother asked.

“Is now truly the time for this discussion?” he huffed. Since it was his mother who spoke and not his father, he was able to stifle his barking tone, “Just this morning a woman was found _dead_ in the garden. Shouldn't that take up occupancy in our minds?”

His father slammed the glass on the table beside him, “She was an old woman who worked until her heart gave out. Detective Bullock already concluded that—”

“—Detective Bullock is a lazy puff guts who was too hasty in his investigation! Detective Gordon suspects a murder plot. Do you not find that the least bit concerning?”

“What I find concerning is the fact that you have refused to settle,” Sir Nashton growled, “Instead you flit around like a child on sugar. It is an annoyance that drives one to drink.”

“Ah, I see. So _I_ am the reason you drink.”

Mr. Edward barely got the accusation out of his mouth before Sir Nashton made is way across the room in one giant stride. His fist collided with bone. The younger Nashton saw stars, but he gripped the sides of the chair to prevent himself from falling. He had been in this position countless times before and knew the beating would be worse if he fell upon the floor. Instead, he spat blood and looked up at his father with a serpentine grin.

“You test my patience,” Sir Nashton clenched his fist. His knuckles cracked with a sharp _'pop'_ that echoed through the room.

“I was unaware you had any.”

The fist came down a second time, eliciting a laugh from Mr. Edward.

“Thomas!” his mother cried out as she stood up in shock.

“Quiet, or you will be next,” he waited for her to lower herself back into her chair before turning back towards his son, “I will ask you again. Have you—”

“—Yes,” he interjected. His lip quivered as he accepted the fact that he would have to have this conversation with his father while sober. “I have given it thought. And, yes...” he swallowed, “I have found someone whom I would be happy to marry.”

“Happy?” he scoffed, “Who then?”

“Oswald,” he spoke the name clearly. He no longer held doubts about the matters of his heart and wanted to convey that clarity to the two people who never bothered to truly know him. The reacted about as well as he assumed. His mother made an irritable noise— like a strangled cat— and threw herself upon her chair with such melodrama, Edward felt he needed to applaud the performance.

“You cannot be serious?” Sir Nashton glowered in disapproval.

“I am more serious now than I feel I have ever been in my life.”

Sir Nashton laughed at that, “Do not be foolish, Edward. He is not your equal.”

“He is more my equal than those dullards you would have me court!”

“Which is why I have been discussing the matter of your betrothal,” he narrowed his gaze, features hardened, “to Ms. Isabella Kringle.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have seen the looks exchanged between you two,” Sir Nashton massaged his hand and made his way back towards his drink. Despite being drunk, he was stable on his feet which only made Edward angrier.

“Isabella is very dear to me but I do not love her,” his gaze bounced between his father and his mother in the hopes that this was all some joke played at his expense.

“So you would marry a scullion and disoblige your family?” Sir Nashton chuckled and took another drink of his scotch, “It has already been arranged.”

Edward's mouth hung agape but he said nothing, drawing back his horns.

“Do not sulk, Edward. It is unbecoming of you,” he took the bottle and glass in hand and slithered toward his study, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed was maddening.

“Do as your father says, Edward,” his mother placed a shaky hand upon his cheek, “He only wants what is best for you.”

“You would have me live a life of misery as you do, mother?” he winced at the pain from her touch, only just now acknowledging the pain that settled in his jaw.

“You think Ms. Isabella will bring you misery?” she cocked her head, genuinely confused by her son's confession.

“A life without Oswald is misery.”

“You will learn to accept it as I did,” she frowned. Her eyes flitted towards the door, “Is Oswald still upstairs?”

“I hope beyond hope that he is.”

“Perhaps you two should make your way into town? Enjoy yourselves for the evening?” she swallowed, “Get away from your father in case his drink possesses him?”

“You really would have me run away from all of our problems?” he snarled. He stood and adjusted his cravat, “I will take your advice and enjoy an evening out. However, I may never return, does that sit well with you?”

“I only wish for you to be happy,” she blinked away tears before lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper, “And if that means that you would rather throw your life away and leave us behind... then I will not stop you.”

Mr. Edward threw his arms around her, kissed the crown of her head, and then left. For once in his life, he was without words. He had no idea if he should thank his mother or be angry with her. He climbed the stairs two at a time and flung open the door to his bedroom. Oswald yelped at the sudden intrusion and blinked up at him. When he saw the bright bloom of a bruise marring his skin, Oswald's face turned scarlet.

“Who did this?” he limped across the room and held his face with care. He was just about to inquire further when his lover interrupted him.

“I know who killed your mother.”

Oswald's expression darkened, “Who, dearest?”

Mr. Edward smiled, bright blood sinking between his teeth and gums as he did. He leaned forward and whispered the names into Oswald's ear. His breath ghosting along the shell of his ear made them both shiver. When he stepped backward to see his splendid splendid expression, he felt as though his legs would give way under his own weight. If time were not of the essence, he would tear off the smaller man's clothes and ravish him for the remainder of the night.

“Perhaps, Mr. Edward...” his fingers danced up his sternum and to his bottom lip, “It is about time I brought you into the wood. Why not feather your nest with a few petty crimes, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the finale! Thank you all for sticking with me. Let me know what you're excited for most in the final chapter :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finale time! A LOT happens in this chapter, so I really hope that the wait was worth it. Thank you all for sticking with me and let me know which parts were your favorite in the comments.

If someone had informed Mr. Edward Nashton that he would, over the course of a few weeks, develop an insatiable appetite for blood and murder alongside his valet-turned-lover, he would laugh in their face and call them a madman. However, that was precisely where Mr. Edward found himself that very night. 

Before the events that took place that fateful evening, Mr. Edward never ventured into Gotham’s alehouses. Truthfully, he feared that one day he would go and return home reeking of vinegar and looking more and more like Sir Thomas Nashton with each passing day. However, seeing Oswald gleam and radiate charismatic charm in his element made Mr. Edward mourn the fact that he had done so.

Of the few alehouses and brothels Mr. Edward had found himself stumbling into, this one was by far the smallest and most intimate. It was a single room with mercifully high ceilings and cobweb-ridden rafters. The bar itself was off to one side with a modest array of gin and liquor. It seemed rather common to simply be given what you were given and, were you to protest the stale smell or taste, you may very well could lose a limb.

The patrons greeted them as they entered— gleeful and sloshing gin and cheap barrel whiskey onto the sticky floor. Seeing Oswald glide through the gaggle of scoundrels made Mr. Edward’s heart leap. He was truly in awe of him and all that he was. 

The atmosphere of this particular alehouse that stained the pipe-smoked air was far more excitable than the cafés he frequented in France. This was not for the faint of heart nor did it possess the kindest of accommodations. The glares directed towards him burrowed like sharp needles beneath his skin. On reflex, he clung to Oswald’s arm like some busty trollop there for work. 

“Lift your chin,” Oswald demanded, “Where is that confident, glib tongued beast I know so well? 

“I fear I am out of my element,” Edward confessed. 

“Bah!” he exclaimed, “You are no more out of your element here among thieves and ruffians than I am at the Nashton Estate.” 

“A key difference here is that I am far more likely to have my guts spilled upon the floor,” Edward whispered, though his anxiety-laced words did not lack intensity. 

“Do not tell me you’re scared,” Oswald grinned, “Or does the danger perhaps excite you?” 

Mr. Edward did have to admit the excitement that fluttered there in his breast. He was unsure whether it was the poetic allure of danger and the sweet tang of death or the hungry look from his lover and the flash of teeth that was to blame. Or, perhaps it was some diabolical combination of the two that threatened to pull him into the deeper pits of Hell.

Oswald looked every bit as regal as any hedonistic fop as he and Edward ensconced themselves at a table hidden in the corner, a dark embroidered curtain separating them from prying eyes. Seated there with them was a woman Edward recognized immediately from her wanted posters as the notorious Maria “Fish” Mooney and a large, intimidating man with a metal hand whom Edward assumed must have been Butch Gilzean.

“Hello, my Little Penguin,” Fish crooned, “I did not expect you to grace us with your presence this night. My condolences.” 

“Thank you, my friend,” Oswald frowned, “But I fear I would disappoint my mother if I did not hoist myself from the dregs of despair. Especially with such a prime opportunity for vengeance on the wind.”

“Oh?” Fish smiled, curious, “And here I merely thought you were whetting your appetites with this little  _ bird of paradise _ you have dangling from your arm.”

The woman and her cohort stared at Mr. Edward from tip to toe and made to wave him away from their corner in a blatant dismissal. Edward, in an attempt to regain ground in this battle of sharpened scowls, chose to combat them with his weapon of choice.

“A single stroke upon a canvas am I, a member of a group and efficacious ally. A colt with wit full of henbane, a puzzle for the brain that no gold may buy.”

“Well, aren’t you a tongue with two sets of teeth,” said Fish with a click of her tongue, “Who are you?”

“Edward Nnn-Nygma. Edward Nygma.”

“Enigma?” she smirked, the corners of her eyes as sharp as a feline's. She directed an inquisitive look towards Oswald who stood there preening at the sound of Mr. Edward’s words, his fondness plain for all to see.

At that, Mr. Edward was invited to join them. They remained skeptical of Edward’s presence until he revealed to them what he knew about the murder of Gertrud Kapelput. Fish’s gaze remained fixed upon Edward as he spoke. Once finished, she took a long pull of whiskey from her tankard before continuing. Her claw-like fingers drummed along the edge of the wooden table.

“So… Lady Van Dahl did not approve of the Baron’s interest in Oswald. You believe that she and her children accidentally murdered Gertrud in their attempt to harm him.”

“That is correct,” Edward nodded. That much of the story was sincerely true.

“And the Baron is innocent?” Gilzean grumbled beside them.

“That he is,” Mr. Edward said, “He spoke very highly of her and Oswald. She used to work for the Van Dahl Estate before she and Oswald came to be at the Nashton Estate.”

“And how exactly did you acquire this information?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Gilzean’s grasp on his tankard tightened.

“Mr. Edward is a confidant of mine and an excellent schemer,” Oswald spoke up, his hand resting on Edward’s shoulder, “When I gave h im all of the information, he simply pieced it together and came to the most logical conclusion.”

“Besides,” Edward smiled, “Even if I were to be wrong, which is unlikely, this presents a prime opportunity for your group to rob one of the wealthiest families in Gotham.”

“And what do you believe, Oswald?” Fish turned to the small man seated beside her, “Do you trust this man and his word?”

“To the ends of this Earth and back,” Oswald replied, his eyes still gleaming. Edward had to bite back the sudden, gluttonous urge to kiss him.

“Very well,” Fish stood, “Give us a moment and I will gather the necessary men to accomplish your plans.”

With the deed set into motion and Oswald’s revenge firmly on the horizon, Mr. Edward could finally allow it to sink in. He and Oswald had already shared a murder once before, but this felt different. The slaughter of the slug that was Constable Dougherty had merely been the beginning. A voice, young and naive, at the back of Edward’s mind warned him about the path he was treading. It delighted him to no end to stare at that doe-eyed bantling and bury him and all that he represented beneath his heel. If being true to himself and protecting those that he loved meant that he must become a fiend, then so be it.

He flagged down the barmaid and handed her a coin before taking both tankards of ale from her tray. She stared at the bit of metal for a moment before eyeing him greedily and stuffing it into her bodice between her breasts and retreating back towards the bar.

“You’d best not bleed so freely,” Oswald whispered in his ear, “You have done well to not reveal who you are, but you do not want to gain any unwanted attention. Especially one directed at your coin purse.”

“But I rather enjoy the attention,” Mr. Edward preened. 

“Shhhh, sleuice your gob,” Oswald playfully brought the tankard to Edward’s lips in an attempt to silence his boyish antics. 

“I would much rather fill my mouth with much sweeter things,” Edward brushed his lover’s ale covered lips with the pad of his thumb. Were they in polite company, his actions might have been scandalous. 

“Then I should flog you for your misdeeds,” Oswald laughed, tugging at Edward’s collar just as scandalously.

“And what if I were to enjoy it?”

Oswald burst into full-bellied laughter. Edward’s heart burst at the seams from the sound. Oswald, unable to resist any longer, pulled him in for a kiss before speaking again, “I fear you will spirit me away with your charms.” 

“Have I not done so already?” Mr. Edward placed a hand over his heart as if offended, “I am ashamed of myself for not having properly done so.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Oswald brought his lips to meet his lover’s once again. Their tongues danced around their mouths as they both hummed and drowned. They pulled away with tiny gasps as Oswald spoke again, “Where have you been all my life?” 

“Wasting away in my glum tower while you stole the silver downstairs,” Mr. Edwards stated plainly. He stared at his treasured valet and held his face contently. Oswald leaned into the touch, his skin warm and freckles bewitchingly speckled.

The words from his mother earlier that same evening danced around his ears like some angry and looming shadow. Oswald, still perceptive despite the late hour and alcohol, felt the tremble in Edward’s fingertips. His brow furrowed.

“What troubles you?”

“I cannot say,” he replied, “Or, rather I should  _ not _ say. Not now, at least.”

“Do you not trust me as I do you?” Oswald frowned sadly.

“I do,” he reassured him, “But we have more important matters to tend to at the moment.”

He tilted his head towards the approaching group of scoundrels, Fish at the helm in a black and field poppy tricorn hat and embroidered coat. Unlike Fish and even Oswald who chose to wear a cravat of puce satin, the other highwaymen in their entourage opted for more muted colors. However, Mr. Edward could not help but find himself envious and, dare he say,  _ frightened _ by how Fish and Oswald wore their colors so boldly in spite of their profession. There would be no doubts as to who they were when they took the carriage and laughed in tune to the sound of iron. With any luck, Mr. Edward hoped that he could one day bottle some of the confidence for himself and relish it as he did opium.

* * *

This robbery, being of a personal matter to Oswald, made him feel dizzy. However, that sensation dissolved away the moment the carriage approached him on the road. He stood there, his boots caked in mud from the evening rain, and aimed his pistol at the carriage driver. He screamed before the iron struck him in the head, splattering brain matter all over the velvet curtains. Luckily for the scoundrels, they were deep in the Gotham Wood and no one would hear them.

The bark of his pistol signaled the other highwaymen who surrounded the carriage with their horses. Ms. Sasha Van Dahl and her brother Charles attempted to flee but were ensnared by the band of rogues. 

"Oswald?" Ms. Sasha's eyes widened in despair, her hands desperately clawing at her brother and thrusting him in front of her. Mr. Charles, lacking an iota of chivalry, squealed and wrestled his sister back to his side.

"What is the meaning of this? You...  _ you scrub!" _ Charles puffed out his chest in a feeble attempt at bravery. His knees buckled clacked together from fear. 

"Of all the insults, you choose that?" Oswald stepped forward, laughing.

"Don't c-c-come any closer!" Ms. Sasha shrieked.

"And what would you do if he did, I wonder?" Mr. Edward spoke from the shadows behind them. He delighted in how the two frightened Van Dahl children scrambled and drank in their screams.

"Mr. Edward?" Ms. Sasha growled, understanding flashing across her face, "Mother made us do it!"

"You say that as if I was not already aware of your misdeeds," he said as he peered through the carriage door, "And where  _ is  _ the Lady Van Dahl?"

"She came down with a fever and so didn't attend the theater with us," Mr. Charles explained, "What are you going to do to us?"

"Is that not obvious?" Oswald gestured to the men and horses around them.

"You mean to rob us?" Ms. Sasha clutched at her jewelry.

"No, my dear.  _ They _ are here to rob you," he aimed his pistol at her brother's knee and released the trigger. The man screamed and crumpled to the cold ground in agony, "I am here to punish you for killing my mother."

Ms. Sasha turned to run, but the edge of Mr. Edward's blade against her sternum warned her not to retreat further.

"Your father will know of this, Mr. Edward," she sobbed, "Please, use reason."

“Tell me, was it always your intention to murder Gertrud, or was the real target Oswald?” Edward asked, ignoring her pleads. 

“Mother wanted them both dead. She would not tell us why,” she stumbled as Edward led her back to where her brother was flailing about covered in blood and mud. She whimpered, “Please, let me go.”

Oswald had learned a long time ago that murder came naturally to him. Ruthlessness and a near-constant need to be the victor in all things led up to it. What started as a simple job to make money so that he could purchase gifts that his mother so rightfully deserved steadily evolved into a profession. One that he relished and enjoyed.

Over the course of his years working as a meek scullion at the Nashton Estate, Oswald had observed the same darkness in the Nashton heir. The man had no siblings and had been handed everything his whole life, but Oswald had never known a man more dissatisfied with his lot in life than Mr. Edward Nashton. So, witnessing him now as he gracefully cut Sasha’s throat with an expert twist of his wrist felt a bit like meeting him for the first time. Oswald wanted, desperately, to sink his teeth into the man.

After disposing of the two, Mr. Edward dug through one of the bags left in the carriage.

“Ah ha!” Mr. Edward exclaimed, brandishing a glass apothecary bottle, “Strychnine Sulphate tablets. They must have dissolved these in her tea kettle that morning.”

“I never doubted your reasoning,” Oswald took the bottle and held it in his hands. It seemed like such a small, insignificant thing. The bottle of poison was unlike a pistol or a knife’s edge. This was… disgraceful. Impersonal. Yet it caused his mother untold agony and pain all the same.

“We should place it in one of their pockets,” Mr. Edward spoke, pulling Oswald out of his thoughts, “Even Detective Bullock would be able to deduce that the Van Dahl’s were Gertrud’s murderers.”

“It is a shame we could not also carve open the Lady Van Dahl for her part in it,” Oswald frowned, handing the poison over to one of the other rogues so they could leave it with the mangled bodies.

“True. Perhaps she will face trial and be forced to live out the rest of her wretched days in Arkham Asylum,” Mr. Edward grinned at the thought before pulling his lover close, “Truly, a fate worse than death.”

“Hmmm, the thought does delight me as I think of her with a shaved head and forced to wear black and white stripes in a dirty cell,” Oswald hummed, pulling Mr. Edward’s lips down to his level so he could easily devour them.

Mr. Edward may be a colt among the more seasoned thieves, but he was already fitting into Oswald’s world— slotting into place like the missing piece of a dissected puzzle.

“I love you,” Oswald spoke between hungry kisses.

“And I love you,” the tone in Edward’s voice wavered, causing Oswald pause. “Run away with me.” 

“Run away?” Oswald pulled away and gawked at the red lining his lover’s eyes. The wetness that sparkled in the torchlight added to the mournful expression. He cupped his face, “Why must we run?” 

When Mr. Edward dared not answer, Oswald’s concern deepened. He searched the man’s blood coated face and found only shame and bitterness outlining his features.

“You spoke with your father…” Oswald frowned, “And he does not approve, just as I told you he would not.”

“He has arranged it so that I marry Ms. Isabella Kringle.”

“Can you not talk your way out of this one?”

“I do not believe I can,” Edward held Oswald’s hands in his own, “Even if you do not flee with me, I cannot return there. I will not allow them to bully me further. I have to do this. Please, do not let me leave Gotham alone.”

“I would not dream of it,” Oswald kissed Edward’s knuckles, “Perhaps I could go to Baron Van Dahl for assistance. He may be able to secure us a place on a ship and we could—”

Mr. Edward shook his head, “No, you cannot speak to the Baron.”

“Once Lady Grace is sequestered away at the asylum—”

“—No,” Mr. Edward growled, “He… He may not wish to have anything to do with you or Gotham after all of this is said and done. His desire to return home to the Netherlands is no secret. He would sooner flee the disgrace of his wife and children and never look back.”

“Perhaps you are right…” Oswald wanted to question his lover’s insistence, but his boundless trust for the man made him think better of it. If Mr. Edward believed that reaching out to Lord Van Dahl was a mistake, he was doing so with irrefutable reason.

“I think I would like to take you to France,” Mr. Edward blushed.

“I would like that,” Oswald felt his cheeks grow warm as he melted against his lover’s lips once again.

* * *

The Nashton Estate was not dark when they arrived. The servants should not be busying about at such an early hour, however the candlelight flickering near the windows and the sound of approaching canines warned the duo that all was not as it should be.

Mr. Edward had intended on packing his things and pilfering through a few of the more robust treasures that he could trade for supplies. However, those plans seem to have been easily foiled by Detective James Gordon.

“Oswald Cobblepot, you are under arrest for the murder of Lady Grace Van Dahl.”

“What is the meaning of this, Detective?” Mr. Edward growled, “Oswald was with me the entire—”

“The entire evening. Yes, I know. You have given me that excuse once before,” Detective James Gordon scoffed, “Should I take you in for murder as well?”

Mr. Edward looked over toward where two other officers were dragging his lover towards the horse-drawn patrol wagon. It would do them no good to attempt to explain where they had been that night without risking exposure for the murder of Charles and Sasha Van Dahl. He would have to approach their situation with care.

“Would you at least bestow upon me the courtesy of knowing why you suspect Oswald of murder,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

“A witness claimed that they heard Oswald Cobblepot blame Lady Van Dahl for the murder of his mother and announced that he intended her harm,” the Detective explained, “And now she turns up dead. Mr. Edward, unless you can tell me where Oswald was this evening and provide some form of evidence, I am afraid I will be taking him in.”

“Give me more time,” Mr. Edward pleaded, “Allow me to prove his innocence.”

“He will hang if you do not,” the Detective warned. He leaned in, his gaze piercing through Edward’s, “I received your letter. I know that you and your colleague, Mr. Lucius Fox, found evidence of poison in the case of Gertrud Kapelput. You and your valet suspected foul play and I know you believed Lady Grace and her children were the culprits. You had hoped your letter would have aided you in your accusations. But, I am afraid that your letter only reinforces the witnesses claim.”

“I am well aware, Detective” he seethed, “Return here tomorrow evening. I will have the evidence you require.”

“I pray that you do.”

Mr. Edward stood in the garden where he and Oswald had spent countless hours over the course of their days together. He would not allow himself to be outsmarted. His thoughts galloped like slicked horses in his mind, threatening to consume them as they raged in a circle around him. Closing his eyes, he sorted through as much of the evidence he had stored in his mind that he could. There, like a gleaming silver thread in the black, was a way forward. Now knowing the steps to take, he turned toward the stables.

A figure approached him from the hill. Normally, he would have felt relief upon seeing her face, but his mind was too rattled nor did he have the patience to speak to her after knowing what his parents had plotted.

“I am afraid now is not the time, Ms. Isabella,” he addressed her with a nod of dismissal, “I will not tarry long. Time is of the essence.”

“Mr. Edward, please tell me what is the matter,” she chased after him, not allowing even a meters distance between them.

“Why must you gnaw at my heels?” he snapped, reigns in hand, “Can you not see how my heart is breaking?”

“And can you not see how mine has been so utterly shattered?” she cried, “Oh, but of course not. Mine does not interest you. It never has.”

He halted at that. His eyes wide as he awaited her words.

“Your mother sent for me after she and Sir Nashton spoke to you about our betrothal,” she fidgeted with her hands in an attempt to steady them but all she managed to accomplish was a display of how thoroughly her spools had unraveled, “I had hoped you would come to your senses.”

“Come to my senses...” he repeated, poison on his tongue, “Do you love me?” 

Ms. Isabella gawked at him, momentarily stunned. She inhaled and steadied herself before responding, “Does my love frighten you?” 

“All this time?” he asked another question in avoidance her own, “I have truly been blind.” 

“Yes,” she confessed, “I have loved and adored you since we were children.” 

“Why?” he bit back in his bitterness.

“What a...  _ bizarre _ question, Mr. Edward. Is this another one of your riddles?” 

“Why would someone like you want to waste your time on someone like me?” he shook, “You and Ms. Kristen are both far beyond your years. You don't  _ need _ marriage. And you certainly don't need a laudanum-addicted aristocrat to shackle you down. You deserve better than that.” 

Ms. Isabella, for all her years, looked so young and lost. Her heart truly was broken. 

“My dear friend,” he held her hands in his own, “There are things about me that you do not know. And I will not burden you with them.”

“But you would burden Oswald?” she pulled her hands away from him, glaring.

“Oswald understands me in a way that you simply cannot.” 

“I have loved you my whole life! Do you think me so daft as to believe that a  _ scullion _ understands you more than I do?” 

“I have  _ killed _ people, Ms. Isabella. With these hands!” he gripped her by the shoulders as he uttered his confession, “I refuse to stain your good name with them.”

“I know what you did to protect my sister from the Constable, Mr. Edward,” she confessed, “I saw you in the woods that night.”

“You... you  _ saw _ me? And yet you still have love for me?” he shook his head, “Are you mad?”

“Love makes me so, yes,” she trailed a finger down his jaw, “You looked so beautiful with blood on your face. It should have frightened me… Am I mad? Has my mind truly flown? I look at you and I do not see a monster.”

“You speak sincerely?” Edward took a step closer, “You aren't afraid of me?” 

“Never,” she cried, “Oswald’s name is in the black book. Be rid of him and follow me instead.”

Hesitantly, Mr. Edward allowed himself to be drawn towards her. A life spent with his childhood friend would certainly not be the worst fate he could indulge. He would finally be what his parents and society wished him to be. He need only breach that remaining distance between them.

At the last moment, before their lips collided, Mr. Edward draped his arms around her and rested his chin upon her shoulder. She, knowing, held him as tightly as her arms allowed.

* * *

For all of Mr. Lucius Fox’s protests, he certainly allowed his scatterbrained colleague to have full dominion over his lab. Truly, the chemist had the patience of a Saint.

Mr. Edward, with great insistence, implored his friend to allow him to have use of his lab and access to the body of the recently deceased Lady Grace Van Dahl. The other chemists had all left for the day leaving Mr. Lucius upstairs in the loft where he slept. The coroner held Mr. Lucius in high regard, as did the Constables and Detectives, and so he was easily granted access to the corpse.

“You are performing the Marsh Test?” Mr. Lucius adjusted his spectacles as he examined the array of volumetric flasks and dispersion tubes filled with various compounds that Mr. Edward had set upon the table.

“Is that not obvious?” he said as he lit the burner.

“And why is this of dire importance?” Mr. Lucius spoke through a yawn, “You arrived at my lab, pounded upon the door, and demanded a sample of Lady Van Dahl’s blood. What sort of puzzle are you attempting to solve?”

“You discovered Strychnine in the tea leaves from Gertrud Kapelput’s kettle, correct?”

“I did,” Mr. Lucius retrieved a white ceramic dish from the curio, “Upon further inquest, there was also poison found in her stomach contents.”

“Yes, well I hope to also discover my own poison,” he added a piece of Zinc to the solution, causing it to bubble instantaneously. He positioned a cork over the mouth of the flask and connected it to the pipette. Using the flame from the burner, he ignited the gas. Mr. Lucius, having already anticipated the man’s actions, gave him the ceramic dish.

“We already suspect that Lady Van Dahl was poisoned,” Mr. Lucius explained, watching the experiment unfold before his eyes. It was certainly not the first time he’d conducted it, nor would it be his last. However, the urgency of the matter and the anxiety clearly evident on his colleague's face piqued his curiosity, “Lord Van Dahl informed us that she came down with a fever in the early afternoon and had been sick most of the evening. When the servants went to check on her condition, she was dead.”

“That further reinforces my theory,” Mr. Edward grinned as he turned the dish over in his hands, seeing the silvery sheen left scorched on its surface from the flame.

“Then I take it you found what you were looking for?” Mr. Lucius asked.

“That I have,” Mr. Edward tamped down his desire to cry from relief. However, with that relief came a wave of additional regret.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Barely a wink since the death of Gertrud, I confess,” Mr. Edward frowned, “And I doubt my mind will allow me to rest before I am able to present this evidence to Detective Gordon tomorrow.”

“Do you have all that you need?” Mr. Lucius asked.

Mr. Edward stared at the dish in his hands, watching was the light from the early morning reflected off of the silvery residue. The words of Mathieu Orfila once again resonating with him as he quoted him out loud, "All things are poisonous and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not poisonous." 

He supposed he should feel remorse for what he was about to unveil, but there was no point in avoiding the inevitable.

* * *

The bodies of Mr. Charles Van Dahl and Ms. Sasha Van Dahl were discovered in the early morning by a passing carriage. Detective Gordon, despite having been at the crime scene, arrived precisely on time that afternoon at the Nashton Estate. Oswald, still spitting venom at his captors with just as much anguish as he had the evening prior, was dragged from the carriage in shackles. This was by no means a proper trial, but he was allowed to attend this meeting of minds that would hopefully exonerate him of the crime.

Mr. Edward wanted very desperately to cling to his lover’s side. To hold his face in his hands and kiss away the bruises that marred his features. If Edward were among very different company, he would paint the room with their insides for the damage done to his beloved valet.

In attendance was Detective Gordon and his partner Detective Bullock, Sir Thomas Nashton and his wife, Lord Elijah Van Dahl, and Mr. Lucius Fox. Seated beside Mr. Edward, in a display of unyielding support, was his betrothed, Ms. Isabella Kringle.

“I hope that you are aware, Detectives, that my son has quite the knack for lying through details,” Sir Nashton sneered as he filled his glass with whiskey from the decanter, “However, this should prove entertaining nonetheless.”

“I am certainly not surprised that you doubt my ability to present the proper evidence, father,” Edward spoke in as calm a voice as he could stomach. Doing so was especially difficult considering his lack of sleep, sore limbs, and the brier tautly wound around his heart.

“For Oswald’s sake, I hope you have it,” Detective Gordon stepped forward, “Seeing as how you roped Mr. Lucius in on your plans, I assume you have something?”

“Mr. Lucius Fox and I conducted a test that proves my theory is correct and will, with confidence, clear my valet’s name,” Mr. Edward explained, handing over the white ceramic dish, “To the layman, Lady Van Dahl’s symptoms could easily be dismissed as a mere fever. Cholera, to be specific in this instance.”

“My wife came down with a fever shortly after lunch,” Lord Van Dahl explained, “I sent for the doctor when she began suffering from a faintness. I prayed that bed rest would cure her illness.”

“Gertrud Kapelput was also poisoned,” Mr. Edward motioned toward his colleague, “I took it upon myself to assist in the investigation and sent the contents of her kettle to Mr. Lucius Fox who later discovered that it was laced with poison.”

“And what does that prove, you talkative fatwit?” Sir Nashton chuckled, too drunk and too sluggish to comprehend the evidence being presented.

“Gertrud drank her poison that morning and was seized by the effects within minutes of going out into the garden,” Mr. Edward explained with a frown, “Lady Grace, as we were just told, was also affected by the poison. However, unlike Gertrud, Lady Grace suffered considerably longer. The poison that she ingested reacted differently and took hours to kill her.”

“Your point?” Detective Bullock scoffed.

“Lady Van Dahl was killed with Arsenic,” Mr. Lucius explained, gesturing to the bit of ceramic Detective Gordon was analyzing, “As you can see here from the residue we collected after conducting the Marsh Test. There is clear evidence of Arsenic in Lady Van Dahl’s blood.”

Mr. Edward, with his head lowly hung, turned to the figure beside him, “Ms. Isabella, can you confirm that it was Arsenic that killed Lady Grace Van Dahl?” 

A silence filled the room, only the crackling of the wood in the fire and the thunderous pounding inside the woman’s chest was present.

“I beg your pardon?” Isabella fluttered her lashes. She could feel the angry, inquisitive eyes stare right through her.

“The poison you used to murder Lady Van Dahl was Arsenic, was it not?” Mr. Edward repeated the accusation.

“I... I do not... Mr. Edward, I don't understand what you are implying,” Ms. Isabella stammered.

“Edward, for God's sake,” his mother shifted uncomfortably. 

“Are you accusing Ms. Isabella of murdering Gertrud Kapelput and Lady Van Dahl?” Detective Gordon asked, his shock evident. 

“I am not. Gertrud Kapelput was murdered with Strychnine, a rather potent and hastily activated poison.”

“A bottle of Strychnine Sulphate was found in the satchel around Mr. Charles Van Dahl's neck,” Detective Gordon told them. Though, Mr. Edward already knew of that.

“As I had already told you in my letter, I suspected that they were the ones behind the murder and, in their attempt to flee, they were apprehended by the one of the roving bands of criminals that prowl the Gotham Wood at night.” 

“My own children murdered Gertrud?” Lord Van Dahl shook his head in disbelief.

“I am afraid so,” Mr. Edward felt a pang of sympathy for the man, “And I also believe that Lady Grace may have also had a hand in her death as well. I’m sorry.”

“What does that have to do with Ms. Isabella?” Detective Bullock asked.

“To think you call yourself a detective,  _ Detective,” _ Mr. Edward clicked his tongue, “It is highly unlikely that a murderer, especially one who uses poison, would change their methods so suddenly. Strychnine and Arsenic are two very different poisons.”

“You're proposing that there are two murderers?” Detective Gordon asked. 

“That I am.”

“Don't be absurd! What motivations would she have?” Sir Nashton bellowed, whiskey dribbling down his unkempt chin as he grew to look more and more like an angry dog with each passing moment.

“Would you like to tell them or would you have me do it?” Mr. Edward asked the woman.

Ms. Isabella's jaw tightened in response. When no words spilled from her lips, Mr. Edward continued.

“Me then!” he grinned, turning back towards his dumbstruck audience, “If my musings you will indulge, I'll speak now of the finest wine. It strikes the heart like a viper's sting, and causes the world to take on new shine. Ares has struck low this place, though the source should rest in Aphrodite's shrine.” 

“Love,” Oswald answered the riddle with little hesitation.

“Yes.  _ Love, _ ” Edward took a step forward. Lord Van Dahl looked up at him then, tears and shame in his eyes. “I adored Gertrud. She was always kind to me. So, I have been invested in uncovering her murderer since the onset.”

Lord Van Dahl understood then, tears spilling from his eyes as he prepared himself for the remainder of the inquiry.

“I suspected the Van Dahl's were involved but I lacked an understanding of their motives. But then I found these...” Mr. Edward pulled the stack of parchment from inside his coat, handing them to Detective Gordon.

“Letters?” the Detective opened them and fumbled over the writing he saw within.

“Written in Hungarian,” Mr. Edward explained, and then took a deep breath, “I doubt you can read them, but their signatures are plain enough to see. These are letters written between Gertrud Kapelput and Lord Van Dahl.” 

“Wha.... why would my mother be writing to Lord Van Dahl?” Oswald asked, turning his attention to the Baron.

“Because you're the Van Dahl heir, Oswald,” Mr. Edward announced.

The room, once again, fell silent as the truth was plainly uttered. Oswald’s gaze landed upon Lord Elijah Van Dahl once more, the man’s head hung low in treacherous pudency.

“Edward, if... if this is one of your games—”

“—I am not playing a game, I am not that cruel. Not with you,” Mr. Edward's voice cracked, splintering like bits of wood beneath a blunted axe. His chest ached. “Read them for yourself.” 

The iron of his shackles clanked loudly in the parlor. Oswald’s eyes roamed over the words emblazoned on the aged parchment, his expression twisting with each harrowing line. “How long have you known?” 

“I knew the moment I spoke with you,” Lord Van Dahl confessed, “Right away, I gave the news to my wife and children and told them of my plans to have you and your mother brought to my Estate.”

“Why am I the last to know of this?” Oswald screamed, the violent shift in the former scullion’s demeanor sent a chill through Sir Nashton and Mrs. Nashton’s spines.

“I had every intention of telling you,” Lord Van Dahl wiped a tear from his eye, “But my heart grieved for your mother. I chose to wait until you and I had the proper amount of time to mourn her.”

“And you?” Oswald spat in his lover’s direction.

“I discovered the letters shortly after Gertrud's death. Since then, I have only revealed what I learned to Detective Gordon in the letter I sent after consulting with Mr. Lucius Fox and, in my utter foolishness, Ms. Isabella,” he turned to his former friend, “You murdered Lady Van Dahl in the hopes that you could have Oswald framed. With him gone, I would not be able to fulfill my plans of running away with him and leaving you a scorned bride at the altar.” 

Sir Thomas Nashton, in his anger, stormed out of the room. The remains of the glass decanter shattered against the wall nearest the youngest Nashton. Edward’s mother, her face as pale as a ghost, remained fixed to her chair in utter shock. 

“I told you I suspected she had been murdered, but I did not confide in you the method,” Mr. Edward explained, “With all of the gossip hanging about among the servants, it would be easy to discover that she had been poisoned. You wrongfully assumed it had been Arsenic that killed Gertrud Kapelput and so you went to the apothecary shortly after I had visited the Kringle Estate.”

“You have no proof that I did such a horrid thing,” she stood up from her chair, her characteristic poise now shattered, “H-How would I have gotten close enough to poison her?”

“You were at my Estate earlier that day,” Lord Van Dahl spoke, “I make a point of knowing all of my servants personally, and I saw you making your way down the hall from the servant's quarters. I did not recognize you from so far away and I did not suspect you were her given your change in attire. But it was you that I saw, was it not?”

“I…”

“Ms. Isabella, if you truly have any love for me in that cold heart of yours, you will confess,” Mr. Edward pleaded, “Because, should Oswald take the blame for your pettiness, I will never forgive you.”

“You would rather see me hanged?” she cried.

“No,” he shook his head, “My heart breaks at the thought.”

“Please, Mr. Edward, do not make me do this. I love you.”

“You should have thought of that before you designed a plot to frame Oswald for murder.”

Ms. Isabella straightened her posture, regaining what shred of dignity she had remaining. “Well done, Mr. Edward.”

* * *

The trial and sentencing of Ms. Isabella Kringle was swift. The evidence collected against her as well as her own confession paved the way for her long and lonesome trip to Arkham Insane Asylum. The jury, in their mercy, believed Ms. Isabella to have been driven into crazed hysterics by her love for Mr. Edward Nashton and so spared her the gallows. However, Mr. Edward knew that it was the worst of the two outcomes.

Shackled and with her spirit broken, Ms. Isabella climbed into the back of the carriage meant to take her through the Gotham Wood and to the asylum. But she would never make it.

Standing in the middle of the road was a woman in an embroidered coat and field poppy hat. A plume of pipe smoke hung about her as she waited for the carriage driver to reign the horses to a halt. Rumor had it that Ms. Isabella was taken from the carriage and led away from Gotham.

“The deed is done,” Oswald explained, an opulent cane in one hand and Mr. Edward at his elbow, “Fish will take the utmost care with your friend.”

“I am glad,” Mr. Edward’s gaze never left the ground. The weight of each step grew heavier the closer they were to the carriage that awaited them.

One of the other servants hoisted Mr. Oswald’s suitcase into the carriage. He had very few possessions, but Mr. Edward chose to shower him in as many gifts that he could reasonably provide— bits of silk and satin, sturdy linen, silver, and a cravat in pomona green to remember him by.

“I will miss you,” Mr. Oswald hovered outside the carriage. Lord Van Dahl was waiting for him at the Estate and was quite insistent that he arrive at the appropriate time that afternoon.

Mr. Edward, in his anguish, said nothing.

“Give me something beautiful to grasp,” Mr. Oswald cried, his knuckles white as he clutched his lover tightly.

“I have already told you that you were more worthy of title than any of the hapless fools we knew, and I meant that,” Mr. Edward smiled, pulling Oswald’s hands away from him, “You have been gifted that opportunity. Pursue it.”

“You promised to take me to France,” Mr. Oswald hand slid up the side of Edward’s face, pulling their gazes together.

“And maybe someday I will fulfill that promise,” he smiled, “Until then, live your life to the fullest.”

“I cannot do so without you.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Edward chuckled, “You have many years to catch up on with Lord Van Dahl and I have no doubts he will fill those caverns left in the wake of all of this. Just promise me you will think back on me fondly. And perhaps even return to me.”

“This is unfair,” Mr. Oswald growled, “I do not have to leave. You know this.”

“I do, but this is what is best.”

“What is  _ best?”  _ he scoffed, “I am not some meek waif that you can bully around. I can decide for myself where I will go and what I will do.”

“And yet you still packed your bags.”

“At your behest,” he rolled his eyes, “Is there truly nothing I could say to you that will change your mind?”

“No,” his response was plain.

A voice bellowed at the back of his mind, scratching and clawing in sorrowful protest. The disconsolate state of his heart crushed him in his hopelessness. Sir Thomas Nashton would not budge. He made it quite clear that he would not accept his son’s choice of husband and would strip his son of any and all inheritance. Mr. Edward, even if he were to leave the confines of the Nashton Estate, would scarcely be able to provide all that Oswald deserved. Even if they were to find happiness among the wretched scrags and slapdash cloves, it would leave them both wanting. Their tale would only end in dejected bitterness.

“You told me that you were not cruel. Not towards me,” Mr. Oswald spoke through clenched teeth, “But this is the cruelest thing you could ask of me.”

Mr. Oswald dared not look back as the carriage pulled away. If he did, he did not believe he could resist the urge to climb upon one of the horses and return. 

He and his father were bound for Rotterdam at first light. The news of which came as a surprise to the Van Dahl heir. He had hoped to have been given more time to lay his heart to rest. His father, still aching from loss and betrayal, could not bear to remain in Gotham a moment longer than was necessary. 

Time, being quite the fickle mistress, was unkind to Oswald. His broken heart and wounded spirit would not allow him to rest and, before he could properly mourn the loss of the life he had come to know, was back in another carriage and bound for the ports, grieving over what once was and never would be again.

Lord Van Dahl was a few steps ahead of him, waxing eloquently about the sights they would see on their trip across the ocean and the beauteous waterfront of Rotterdam. When he could no longer sense his son at his side, he turned and frowned at the man’s long and gaunt expression.

“What ails you, my son?” Lord Van Dahl approached the dark-haired man, placing his hands upon his shoulders. Oswald, bedecked in finery, looked positively miserable.

“This is all I have ever wanted… but I cannot leave,” Oswald told him, laughter on his breath.

Lord Van Dahl, having already anticipated this outcome, smiled.

“I have to follow my heart, father. And that means turning around and leaving you so that I may be with him.”

“If you must turn around, then please know that you have my blessing to do so,” Lord Van Dahl’s smile never wavered, even as his son barreled forward and hugged him. As he pulled away, his father adjusted his cravat and smoothed out the stray hairs on his brow. Oswald gave him one final, mournful nod of his head before turning around back towards Gotham.

There, standing at the edge of the pier, was Mr. Edward.

Oswald nearly dropped his cane from the shock of it. Mr. Edward, his heart carrying his feet aloft, bounded forward. His lips collided with Oswald’s, caring not for typical politeness in the presence of mixed company.

“You knew I would never leave,” Oswald held his lover tightly, as if to prove to himself that he was real.

“I suspected you would not,” Mr. Edward held him just as fondly, “However, shortly after you left the Estate, one of the servants gave me a letter from your father inviting me to leave with you instead. I had hoped to surprise you.”

“I lived my life away from the person I loved,” Lord Van Dahl spoke, “I could not bear to watch you suffer the same.”

“Will you have me?” Mr. Edward asked, tentative and unsure. He knew Oswald loved him, as he did him also, but such a slight against him and the brief sorrow their temporary parting may very well have sullied those delights.

Oswald, lacking in words, expressed the permanency of his love and devotion to Mr. Edward through another kiss.

So, as fortune dictated, they sailed for Rotterham hand in hand. For no marriage among birds of a feather, secure as any earthly happiness could be, would compare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ending epilogue coming in the next day or so! I had planned on publishing it along with the finale, but I wanted to polish it up a bit first.


End file.
